


Rise Again

by orlofthesky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because They're Playing The Game Of Thrones, But Some Still Must Die, Conspiracy and Prophecy, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Surprises, Survival Is A Coping Mechanism, changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12743868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlofthesky/pseuds/orlofthesky
Summary: When King Robert is killed in a tragic hunting accident everybody expects his beloved wife to assume the position of Queen Regent alongside Tommen, their seven-year-old son and heir. But Queen Lyanna has a different plan, one that has been seventeen years in the making. Once upon a time she nearly ruined a kingdom by choosing love over duty, and while some things can never be undone she is eager to make it right this time around and give Rhaegar Targaryen's surviving children their birthright back.Meanwhile in the North there are unsettling news from the Wall. When the summons from King's Landing arrives, Lord and Lady Stark need to make a decision where to turn to. They might not fully understand the prophecy Lyanna believes in, but they made a promise seventeen years ago. They are raising the Prince That Was Promised after all ... or are they?





	1. Lyanna I

**Author's Note:**

> **Synopsis:** This is totally AU. Lyanna survived Robert's Rebellion and so did all of Rhaegar's children, and the whole course of history is changed ... but this isn't a fix-it and agreeing to marry Robert wasn't actually the most difficult decision in Lyanna's life. But she made a promise seventeen years ago and she's going to keep it come hell or high water. Some characters are the same, some aren't, and some aren't who they seem. Some events are the same, some aren't. Please keep an open mind, or find something else to read if you're more into canon-compliant fic.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, obviously, and I don't make any money from it. If I did I would be working on Season 8 and/or TWOW, not on this fic. This is solely for my, and hopefully your, enjoyment.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Westeros isn't exactly a safe place. Bad things happen to good people, there will be violence and death and traumatic events ... not excessively and nothing worse than in canon, though.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** I'm looking forward to your comments! If anyone happens to like the story well enough to become involved, please let me know - I'm still looking for a beta or someone to bounce ideas off!

First the lamenting stops and she’s glad, cynically so. His voice had become more laboured by the minute while he was rasping out his last words. He had been speaking of undying love and heroic greatness and everything she remembers quite differently, everything she doesn’t quite care to remember, for all that she knows it’s her duty to indulge him now. She silently nods to her good-sister who hurries to round up the children and take them out of the room. They are still so young and innocent, too young to bear witness to their father’s suffering. Then the wailing and gurgling subdues. Under everyone’s attentive stares the maester quickly administers another dose of milk of the poppy and when they sit back everyone is painfully aware that the sickbed they’d been holding vigil at is to become a deathbed soon enough, and she still doesn’t feel anything even though she should. Finally, hours later, the wheezing stops too.

“Is it over?” she asks matter-of-factly.

When the maester gives a solemn nod she lets out a sigh of relief she’d been holding in for too long. There is no point in making a display of grief and emotion, everyone in the room knows her too well to fall for the heartbroken widow charade she will have to put on in the following days and weeks. Letting go of her husband’s limp hand she stands to open a window. The stench of death permeates the too-warm room, seeping into every nook and cranny, making her want to retch. She takes a deep gulp of air and realises that winter is coming. There is a crispness to the night, not as blatantly obvious as in the North of course, still overpowered by the usual stench of King’s Landing, but it is undeniably _there_.

 _It is time, Lyanna_ , she thinks to herself, _now it ends, now it begins_.

Straightening her shoulders she turns again, facing her entourage of advisers, purposefully avoiding to look at her husband’s battered corpse.

“Grand Maester Pycelle,” she says to the wizened old man with the droopy swimming eyes who is still holding the late monarch’s wrist, feeling for a pulse that is no longer there, “it is your duty to inform the realm that King Robert has perished.”

He bobs his head. “I shall have ravens sent from Sunspear to Castle Black.”

“Lord Hand,” she continues, turning to the man who could as well have been her good-father, “call for the Silent Sisters and see that preparations for his funeral are made.”

Jon Arryn nods gravely, and it pains her to see that there is more grief and sadness in the old man’s face than in her own. Though he’d never been entirely blind to the king’s many faults and shortcomings he had loved him as a son, more than his own son maybe. Stepping back and giving him time to say goodbye was the only right thing to do, and busying himself with funeral preparations sounded like the perfect excuse a hardened warrior who had never been overly warm and affectionate might need.

“Have my ladies prepare appropriate mourning garb for myself and the children,” she continues before she realises that she’s obviously rendered more scatterbrained by the whole ordeal than she should be, “Don’t bother. Lady Margaery is with the children, I shall tell her myself when I retire.”

“Knowing her she’s already at it,” Renly puts in with a small and surprisingly fond smile that turns to a frown for propriety’s sake, “No offence, Your Grace, only that my lady wife is an innately practical person who doesn’t approve of idleness.”

“None taken,” she replies, grateful as always for her good-brother’s silent support, “We all realised how grave the situation was even before the maester said it in as many words. There is no fault in preparing for the worst.”

 _Preparing_. It was all she had been doing for seventeen long years after all.

“The funeral will be held in … in a sennight, what say you?”

“That sounds reasonable, Your Grace.”

“The realm and the household will be in mourning for three moon’s turns while we prepare for the coronation.” She glances up, trying to mask her insecurity. This was the moment she had been waiting for for so long, but somehow she’d never thought it would come so soon, expedited by a raucous boar and fuelled by a hunt too well enjoyed. Time, and a clear head, was of the essence now. “On the occasion of the coronation a tourney will be held. Lord Renly, I entrust you with all the necessary preparations. You have my permission to be … thorough in your preparations, and not to worry about the expenses.”

“A tourney, Your Grace?” Jon Arryn’s voice is brittle, on the verge of breaking, “That is … in rather poor taste, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I’m inclined to disagree, Lord Hand. Knowing how _vivacious_ my dear Robert was I believe he would rather appreciate it. He wouldn’t want us to mourn his death but to celebrate his life, and he loved nothing better than a good tourney after all.”

Jon Arryn, despite knowing full well that the queen had spoken the truth, still doesn’t look quite convinced. Grief is clouding his senses, and not for the first time since the accident Lyanna wishes that his wife hadn’t left for Riverrun to tend to her ailing father a fortnight ago. Her presence and her calm counsel was sorely missed, by both the queen and the hand, now more than ever. Lyanna finds herself struggling. She doesn’t want to lie, not to the people whose guidance and ongoing support she has to rely on, but she couldn’t quite tell the truth yet either.

“A tourney would also be a demonstration of strength and stability,” Renly says suddenly, tearing his gaze away from his dead brother’s face, “something we desperately need now that we’re facing a lengthy period of regency. That’s something we haven’t had in recent memory, and of course people, nobility and smallfolk alike, will be … insecure, if you will.”

“I fail to see, Lord Renly, how a lavish display of abundance will convince them otherwise!”

“For all that the people love Queen Lyanna, have done so for nigh on two decades, she has yet to prove herself as a true leader. Hosting a tourney and bringing the realm together for the coronation will be a first glimpse of what she’s capable of doing.”

“Only it is not the Queen who will be under scrutiny but our new King.”

“Oh but she will!” When Renly throws up his hands in exasperation he can’t uphold the facade that made him sound wiser than his years any longer, for all that his words still hold purpose, “My darling nephew is but seven years old, he cares for little but his kittens and still wets the bed at night because my brother tried and failed to beat some manliness into him. He will be king in name only for at least a decade to come, and people are not so naive not to see that.”

Lyanna lets out a deep sigh, leaning over to squeeze Renly’s forearm in a gesture of gratitude. It was easy to forget that he was a man grown by now, a capable one at that, for in her mind and in her heart he would always be the half-starved orphan boy, barely older than Tommen is now, who had stumbled into her life at the darkest hour. For all that her relationship with Robert had always been one of duty and political calculation, her relationship with Renly had never been anything but warm and affectionate and loving, sometimes in a sisterly and sometimes in a motherly fashion. She could only hope that his resolve and his devotion to her would not waver when everything came differently …

“Let’s postpone any decision until tomorrow,” she says, unable to hide the strain in her voice, “It is past midnight already and this night is not over yet. We all have duties yet to attend to, and we had better get some rest before the bells of the sept ring at daybreak.”

“If you so wish, Your Grace.”

“I do.” She nods determinedly. “I shall retire now. I need to be with my children at this tragic time.”

She leaves without as much as a last glance at her late husband’s corpse, and she doesn’t quite know how she made her way through the holdfast and to her quarters where her children are sleeping with Ser Jaime Lannister guarding the door.

“Your Grace,” is all he says, raising a questioning eyebrow as he holds the door open for her. Margaery jumps to her feet, smoothing out a dress of gleaming black silk, staring at her with uncertainty written all over her face.

“The king has passed away,” Lyanna says; voicing it still seems surreal.

“Did he die peacefully?” Margaery immediately wants to know.

 _Of course he didn’t,_ _silly girl, he was gutted by a boar and his wounds have been festering for three days and three nights while he was slowly bleeding out_ _._ Lyanna feels like snapping at her, but she manages to rein herself in at the very last moment. Margaery had been _there_ after all, she’d only been sent away with the children after the dying king had lost his lucidity, she’d seen the utter havoc the beast had wreaked with her own eyes.

“Maester Pycelle was generous enough with the milk of the poppy and King Robert was a strong man. I believe he did not feel any more agony in the end.”

“Good,” Margaery breathes and then she too composes herself. “The children are asleep, finally. Sansa was quite distressed, but she was so determined to stay strong for her siblings’ sake. It was quite admirable to be honest. The little ones, though … I don’t believe they fully understand what has happened. Tommen especially, he …”

“ _King_ Tommen,” Ser Jaime interrupts, but Lyanna deliberately chooses to ignore him.

“You did well, my dear. Thank you.” She takes her good-sister’s hands, giving them an encouraging squeeze. “I believe you should go to Renly now. He’s taking it quite hard I’m afraid, for all that he’s soldiering on he needs a loving hand. Should you require your own brother’s support in this dark hour, please let him know that he’s free to step down from his post if need be.”

Margaery gives a wan smile accompanied by an appreciative nod, because of course she understands what Lyanna hadn’t been saying. “If you need anything, Your Grace, anything at all …”

Over the course of the last year she had come to love the girl as the little sister she’d never known she’d wanted, and furthermore she knows full well how important it was to keep her close in the wake of things to come, so she leans over and kisses her cheek before she gently dismisses her. “I know where to find you, my dear. Now hurry, and don’t you worry about me.”

Margaery disappears in a ruffle of petticoats, leaving Lyanna standing in the doorway with the White Knight known as the Kingslayer eyeing her sceptically.

“Pycelle is already sending the ravens but I shall write to the family on Dragonstone myself, informing them of the sad news,” she finally says, “if you wish to add anything, some words of comfort for your lady sister maybe, I’ll gladly leave some space and hand the letter over to you before I seal and send it.”

“That would be most appreciated,” the Kingslayer says, “My sincerest condolences, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” Lyanna says by ways of dismissal. She couldn’t possibly bear to hear another impromptu eulogy, telling her how great and how loved her husband had been, but thankfully the Kingslayer gets the hint and wordlessly closes the door behind him. Lyanna leans against it, giving a deep sigh.

Composing herself might have taken a heartbeat or an hour, she couldn’t quite say. She straightens with determination, pouring a rather generous amount of wine into a chalice while she tugs at the lacing of her dress with the other hand. Having sat at her husband’s deathbed for too long she can still feel the putrid stench of death on her, blood and guts and poultices and milk of the poppy and all, and she knows instinctively that she needs to get rid of it before facing her children. A bath is out of the question of course so she turns to the washbasin on her vanity and the black dress dear Margaery had laid out for her. She still doesn’t feel quite clean but she is at least able to convince herself that it’s all in her imagination. Steeling herself for the inevitable she downs her wine with a fervour that reminds her of Cersei, and when she puts the chalice down she catches her reflection in the looking-glass and lingers, despite not being a vain person at all.

 _Queen Lyanna._ Every inch of her is regal, it’s so ingrained in her posture and her expression and her very being, and by now it’s so natural to her that she hardly ever thinks about the wild and wilful girl she used to be, the she-wolf who would have balked at everything ladylike, who would've split her sides laughing at the notion of being a queen, let alone enjoying it. She’s tired but strong, hardened by the years, crow’s feet around her eyes and deep lines on her forehead, the kind of wrinkles that come from worry not laughter, and silver streaks in her hair that give her a dignified appearance for all that she's visibly dishevelled after long hours of vigil. _I won’t be queen much longer_ , she thinks to herself. _Seventeen years is more than enough, given that I never wanted to be_ his _queen after all._

She smiles at her reflection before she slips into her bedchamber, and all of a sudden there are tears in her eyes. Her children are asleep on her bed, curled together in a tangle of limbs and a tousle of black curls. She prays to gods she doesn’t believe in that the floorboards won’t creak as she approaches on tiptoes, leaning over them with awe in her watery eyes.

Ser Pounce is guarding them with a lazily offended mewl and for all that she’s lectured the children that pets don’t belong in bedchambers thank you very much over and over and over again she doesn’t find it in her heart to remove him. Not today. Tommen’s pudgy little hand is curled into the kitten’s fur and the thumb of his other hand is firmly lodged in his drooling mouth. He looks utterly at peace, not at all like a boy who has just lost the father he admired so much despite everything, let alone a king. The sight is enough to break her heart.

“Tommen,” she whispers hoarsely, stroking his cheek, “it’s alright, my sweet. He won’t harm you, never again, and as the years go by you’ll forget and keep the fond memories. You can grow up happy, I promise, and you’ll never be king. Not if I can help it.”

Alys twitches, giving a whimper and tightening her embrace around her little brother. Lyanna holds her breath, hoping she won’t wake, and in the end she doesn’t. She places her hand on her shoulder, smiling down at her. Even in her sleep the girl resembles her father so much it hurts, but in the end it hadn’t been enough. Just like her older sister Alys had only been one thing to her father: _not a son, not an heir,_ _not worthy_. The situation had relaxed after Tommen’s birth, but still … Closing her eyes Lyanna gives a sigh, trying her best to will away the bitter memories. It’s blatantly obvious, even in the dusky candlelight, that Alys has been crying herself to sleep for the father who never really cared for her.

Lyanna’s gaze wanders over to her eldest whose arm is protectively curled around both her siblings. A mother isn’t supposed to have favourites, Lyanna knows full well, but she can’t help it. After the loss of her firstborn son had left her bereft and desperate and her self-imposed situation at court had become nigh on unbearable, darling Sansa had been the light on the horizon and with the years she had risen to become the sun itself. She reaches over to tousle her wiry raven curls, leans in to kiss her cheek, marvelling at the face that’s slowly becoming a woman’s face … a _queen’s_ face.

“My darling,” she mumbles tonelessly, “oh my darling, I’m ever so sorry. I wish you had more time … but you’re strong and you’ll persevere, no, you’ll thrive. I promise I’ll be with you every step of the way, and you’ll grow into it, and you’ll be outstanding.” A wave of fatigue washes over her as she kisses Sansa’s sweet face again. She knows full well that she can’t linger, there’s still so much to do before dawn breaks. “My little girl. My queen.”

Lyanna stubbornly wipes a stray tear from her eye and settles at the desk by the window. The writing set gives a creak as she opens the lid and the inkwell squeaks gratingly. She glances over her shoulder, but thankfully the children don’t seem to notice. Smoothing out the scroll of parchment with her left hand she dips the quill and starts writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that there are some major changes from canon ... here, have a family tree of sorts:
> 
> **House Baratheon:**
> 
> King Robert I Baratheon  
> Lyanna Stark Baratheon, his wife and queen consort  
> Cassana “Sansa” Baratheon (14), betrothed to Robb Stark of Winterfell  
> Alysanne “Alys” Baratheon (11)  
> Tommen Baratheon (7)
> 
> Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone  
> Cersei Lannister Baratheon, his wife  
> Joffrey, Myrcella, and Shireen, their children (who are, of course, biologically Jaime's)
> 
> Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Master of Laws  
> Margaery Tyrell Baratheon, his wife, lady in waiting to Lyanna  
> Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard, the Knight of Flowers, Margaery's brother and Renly's lover


	2. Ashara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord and Lady Stark worry about darker things that are looming beyond the Wall ... and about their son's future.

Having pulled the heavy tapestries aside he stands by the open window stark naked, the cold night’s air swirling around him as he faces the dark. His breathing calms and the glistening perspiration evaporates from his skin in cloudy wafts like water from the hot springs’ surface. Even after all these years she cannot help but admire his comely figure, stocky and muscular, neither handsome nor plain, but so familiar. Her eyes wander, watching the play of muscles in his broad shoulders, trailing down the defined lines of his flanks until they come to linger on his shapely buttocks, round and creamy white like the full moon hung low in the sky over Winterfell, and she leans back against the warm wall, revelling in the deliciously aching sensation in her loins for a moment longer. Their lovemaking – still frequent and passionate enough despite having been married for going on nineteen years now – had been particularly vigorous tonight; it usually was when one of them was perturbed, when they needed to feel each other to reassure themselves that they were still together and still alive.

Earlier today he had taken a life in the name of King Robert, executing the laws of gods and men as was his duty as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. For all that he’s an honourable and dutiful man who understands the importance of justice served she knows that he doesn’t particularly like killing. Sometimes, the faces of the men he’d slain on the block or the battlefield come creeping back to haunt him in the still of the night, making him cry and lash out involuntarily in his sleep. He was able to cope well enough with people who deserved to die – murderers and rapists and poachers and their ilk – but today had been different. Yet another deserter from the Night’s Watch had faced his end by Eddard Stark’s hand and Ice’s sharp blade; she hadn’t been there to witness the execution of course, but she had heard what those who had had said in the aftermath – she had yet to wrangle a comment from her stern and taciturn husband’s lips and that would be no small feat given his mood, and she purposefully chose to ignore the hushed whispers of castle scuttlebutt that spoke of wildlings and monsters and seemed to get more sensational by the hour, which left only the accounts of those she trusted, the most loyal members of her household and, of course, the boys.

Deserters fleeing their post at the Wall weren’t that uncommon, she was well aware. Not many men took the oath at their own volition after all; most were desperate to begin with, criminals lacking any sense of duty and honour, so the occasional desertion hardly came as a surprise. Thinking back she remembered one for every or at least every other year, sometimes more when a ragtag group of misfits chose to make away together, but that was it. Four deserters over the course of a couple of moon’s turns, that was something new and for all that she ha gotten used to the looming shadow of the Wall, she can’t deny that it makes her feel quite uneasy.

She remembers watching the retinue return to Winterfell’s courtyard mid-morning and overhearing how Jory Cassel and Vayon Poole commented that this man had been older than the others, that he’d been a brother of the Night’s Watch for some time already, not some unwilling recruit forfeiting his life or some stupidly delusional green boy who didn’t know better. It had piqued her interest and she paused, despite having more than enough work to do, loitering on the elevated wooden walkway that surrounds the inner courtyard eavesdropping on the boys who tended to their horses. Theon, full of sniggering disdain, called the man a craven who deserved it. Bran harrumphed in disagreement, saying that he had faced his fate with courage and died bravely. Robb, two years older than Bran and ten times more sensible than Theon, only shook his head with a sad twitch around his lips. He might have been brave, he said, but he’d been terrified out of his mind and you could see in his eyes that there was something haunting him. Artie tugged his sleeve, asking how one could be brave and cowardly at the same time and if it was really true that the man had seen a White Walker, and Robb had tousled his hair telling him to remember what Father had told them earlier: _a mad man sees what he sees_.

The Lady of Winterfell wasn’t born a Northerner; the creatures she remembers prowling her childhood nightmares were entirely different ones – fierce pirates with painted beards and blades for fingers, manticores the size of warhorses, desert wraiths made of sand and lost souls that slithered stealthily beneath the dunes and rose to swallow people whole – but over the course of nearly two decades the cold and unforgiving North had seeped into her soul and having raised six Northern children she’d listened to enough of Old Nan’s gruesome hearth stories to understand.

“What is it?” she inquires ever so softly as he comes crawling beneath the furs again, running a cold foot along her thigh before he leans back and takes her into his arms. She can feel the tension in his shoulders and in his jaw, and it has her worried.

“It is time, I’m afraid,” he says, touching his hand to her cheek in a rather absent-minded way, “Are you ready?”

Knowing full well what he is referring to without saying it in as many words she feels her entire body tense and her face go blank in the very same way it used to, years ago, every time she had to face the Mad King. She has been preparing for this moment for seventeen years, she had been trying to postpone the inevitable for long enough now, but …

“I’ll never be ready, Ned. _Never_.”

“Me either. But winter is coming, my love, and we made a promise.”

“I know. And he needs to be ready when the time comes … he’s old enough now.”

She clenches her eyes shut, trying and failing not to succumb to nostalgia. She remembers holding him for the very first time, cradling him in her arms and watching in awe as he gurgled and grabbed for her finger, and even then she had been overwhelmed with love and the desire to keep him safe and make him happy. She remembers his wide-eyed curiosity at the ever-changing world around them on their long trip north, bouncing on his new father’s knee until the awkwardness dissipated and being father and son became a second nature to both of them, and by the time they reached home – _Winterfell_ , she hadn’t yet thought of the place as _home_ back then – he’d grown so much that he crossed the gates on his own two albeit shaky legs, proudly stumbling into his new life, supported by Lord Eddard Stark and his Dornish wife. The crowd gathering for their arrival had cheered – _T_ _he young Lord of Winterfell! The young Lord of Winterfell!_ _He’s home! Stark! Stark!_ \- and when she realised that they were referring to the boy as well as her husband, maybe even more so, she had known with certainty that everything was going to turn out perfectly alright.

Seasons came and went and with the passage of time the unlikely circumstances of becoming parents for the first time became less and less important. The boy was Robb, their firstborn son, and he was joined by five more Starklings in rapid succession.

She remembers the fascination in his deep purple eyes when he was introduced to his newborn brother Bran, and the fleeting absurdity of it all. She remembers sitting by his bedside and fearing for his life when a virulent midsummer fever rampaged through the keep, and when a sennight’s worth of prayers to the Mother didn’t help she turned to the Old Gods for the first time and the fever broke. She remembers him clumsily twirling through the courtyard under Ser Rodrik’s stern eyes, whacking a wooden sword at fat wet summer snowflakes that had become imaginary foes, and how he reminded her of Arthur – her long-lost brother Arthur of course, not the sweet babe they named for him many years later – so much it hurt. She remembers him pouting when Ned departed for war, insisting that he’s grown up and strong enough to fight alongside him and do his father proud and her heart broke with the memories and the implications. She remembers his hot tears when they had to put down his favourite horse, Grey Wind, when it broke its leg after a nasty fall on a hunt in the slippery moors beyond the Wolfswood. She remembers being secretly proud when he declares that he wants to follow Uncle Benjen’s steps and take the black, and rather ashamed when Bran reminds him that he can’t because he’s the heir. She remembers his disappointed huff when he took a knee before the king and queen – Uncle Robert, his namesake, and Aunt Lya –, muttering under his breath that it was a crying shame they got rid of the dragon skulls in the throneroom, and how her heart had stopped in this very moment. She remembers his eagerness to learn and adapt and his wonderfully open mind when they travelled the realm to visit her native country and learn about his mothers’ ways. She remembers the way his white eyelashes fluttered when he met cousin Sansa again after a long time, blushing fiercely with embarrassment when Uncle Robert teased him relentlessly and continued to make bawdy and highly inappropriate jokes about weddings and beddings. She remembers being both utterly relieved and utterly shocked when he commented that he didn’t care much for court and he’d much rather be Lord of Winterfell than King any day. She remembers being his mother for all intents and purposes.

Her husband shifts and lays his stubbly chin upon her chest with a deep sigh. “We raised him well, Shari. Even if he goes on to become everything he’s meant to be, a part of him will always be Robb Stark of Winterfell and he’ll never cease to be our son.”

Ned has never been an overly emotional man, as a rule his actions speak louder than words and she has always been content enough with the way things are. This might be the closest he got to a declaration of love and devotion. She smiles down at him, as reassuringly as possible, running her fingers through his wiry, greying hair. There’s a vulnerability to him that makes her feel helpless and utterly lost, and she knows that dwelling further on emotions would not do.

“Jory and Ser Rodrik can take the boys out riding tomorrow, they’ll be thrilled to practice their archery and shoot some hare or fowl, and Gage will appreciate it, he’s been complaining about the state of the larder again. And I’ll make sure that Septa Mordane keeps Serena and Arya well occupied in the meantime. Or now that I think of it, let’s maybe allow Arya to tag along with the boys for once …”

They both chuckle, knowing full well that their wayward youngest daughter would most likely not stay out of their way when forced to spend her day doing needlework and calligraphy with the septa and the young ladies of the household.

“And then we’ll talk to Robb.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“By taking him to the godswood, mayhaps.”

Ned pulls her closer, kissing her temple, kissing the corner of her eye as she stubbornly blinks her tears away, kissing her cheek, kissing her lips. She gives a sigh, melting into his embrace. The gods had seen fit to shoulder her with a burden that might have crushed and broken a lesser woman long ago, but then again they had been kind enough to give her Ned. She tangles their legs together and twists her fingers into his hair, pulling him in for yet another kiss before she gives a deep sigh, leaning her forehead against his.

“You know what your sister once told me?”

“Knowing her it was something incredibly witty and incredibly dramatic,” Ned retorts dryly, and despite everything she can’t help but laugh.

“’When the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies but the pack survives,’ is what she said.”

“Only dragons don’t come in packs.”

The truth, unspoken for so many years, cuts like a Valyrian steel blade and rings in the air for all that it had been but a whisper. The air in the room was warming up again, Ned had closed the windows before he returned to bed, yet she freezes on the spot. A sense of doom creeps through her very being, chilling her to the bones.

“He’s still a wolf of Winterfell,” she insists, pausing for a moment before she adds, “as is your sister who brought all of this upon us. She better not forget that.”

She barely notices that her voice had lowered to a growl until Ned laughs, fondly gazing at her with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes. “You’re a wolf yourself, my love. If Lyanna can’t keep the pack together, you can.”

“I don’t care about … the rest of them. I care about Robb,” - his name turns to ash on her tongue but she can’t bring herself to say the other name, not now, not yet, maybe not ever - “and, man grown or not, prophecy or not, I fear for his safety. There are many who might not be as eager to welcome the dragons back as your sister is.”

“Of course you worry, you’re his mother.” Ned sighs, closing his eyes. “Listen, Shari, I’m not happy about this either, but I don’t see any other way. He needs to be prepared when the time comes, he needs to be aware of who he is and make an informed decision for himself, and if everything she believes in is true and he really has a part to play in all this …”

She takes his hand and raises it to her lips, placing a tender kiss onto his palm. “We’ll tell him on the morrow. Nevertheless …” She takes a deep breath, remembering the events earlier that day that set everything into motion, “Nevertheless, there must be something else we can do. If all of this is real, and I’m not necessarily saying it is, we cannot wait until a miracle happens, especially because we don’t even know what that miracle is supposed to be, only that Robb has a part to play in it.”

“You’re right of course.” Ned nods gravely. “Would that it were but wildlings and their King beyond the Wall, but Shari … that man today, he was half-dead with fear and it wasn’t his own death he was fearing. There are darker things beyond the Wall, this all but confirms it.”

“What does Benjen have to say?”

“Only that their numbers are decreasing and they’re losing men on rangings. I fear he doesn’t quite dare speak freely in his letters. I’m considering to ride north and see for myself, and the day might come when we have to call the banners.”

“You need some proof of course,” she immediately puts in, “Our bannermen won’t ride out to fight old wives’ tales. Can you imagine the face Roose Bolton might make? Or, come to think of it, Maege Mormont?”

Ned lets out a huff that reluctantly turns into a chuckle, and she chimes in with him, her laughter unsteady but clear. She’s glad that he hasn’t quite lost his sense of humour, though she’s probably the only person alive who is able to locate it beneath his stern and solemn lordly demeanour.

A knock on the door interrupts their cosy and intimate togetherness. Ned pushes himself up in the cushions, furrowing his brow. A disturbance at that time of the night is highly unusual, especially because they had explicitly requested privacy.

“I wonder who that could be at this hour?”

“Artie, mayhaps?”

She’s puzzled too, and it’s the only explanation she can come up with. It’s been years since their seven-year-old son last came crawling into their bed in the hour of the wolf, haunted by nightmares, but then again, he had witnessed his first execution today. She finds her robe and makes for the door. Desmond, the guardsman, gives an apologetic shrug as Maester Luwin stands in the entranceway with a grievous expression on his face, bidding for an audience.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ned demands, authority in his voice.

The maester purposefully closes the door before he fumbles in his sleeves, procuring a scroll and then another.

“Lord Stark, Lady Stark,” he announces with a gravity in his voice that seems more suited for a courtroom than a spontaneous and highly unusual night-time visit, “This could not wait until morning I’m afraid. A raven has arrived from the capital.”

She gives an involuntary gasp. Ned pales and stumbles as he rises. _Lyanna. The children. The plan._ She grows impatient as the maester fumbles for words, she wants to tear the letter out of his wiry hands, but then he finally speaks up again.

“I regret to inform you that His Grace King Robert has perished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, many thanks to my wonderful beta [Ketch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketch117/pseuds/Ketch117) whose comments have made this chapter infinitely better!
> 
> Also here's another family tree to reflect the changes:
> 
> **House Stark**
> 
> Eddard “Ned” Stark, Lord of Winterfell & Warden of the North  
> Ashara "Shari" Dayne Stark, his wife  
> Robert “Robb” Stark (17) - assumed incognito identity  
> Lemore Stark - stillborn daughter, born around the same time as “Robb”  
> Brandon “Bran” Stark (15) - doesn't know yet that he's the heir to Winterfell  
> Serena Stark (13)  
> Arya Stark (11)  
> Arthur “Artie” Stark (7)  
> Rickon Stark (5)
> 
> Theon Greyjoy (19) - their ward/hostage 
> 
> Lyanna Stark Baratheon, the Queen (more on her family in the previous chapter's notes)  
> Benjen Stark, brother of the night's watch


	3. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After standing vigil in the sept for the better part of the day Princess Sansa wishes for a moment of peace and quiet so that she can start processing her grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that the Sansa in this story isn't canon!Sansa. She's Princess Cassana Baratheon, not Sansa Stark. They share some significant character traits but they're entirely different people living entirely different lives. Bear with me. 
> 
> Also, apologies for the long wait. Work's been crazy these last couple of weeks and I couldn't spare the time or energy to get any writing done. I hope to update once a week-ish from now on, though.

A royal princess is hardly ever awarded any privacy, Sansa knows this for a fact, just as well as she knows her own name to be Cassana Baratheon. A fact she had taken as a given, and she enjoyed the constant bustle of court life enough never to complain. A royal princess also keeps her composure at all times, she is always dignified and aloof and courteous. The Septa’s teachings have long ceased to be a chore or an act, they’ve become a second nature to Sansa.

Only now that she’s rapidly losing her composure does she feel the overwhelming need to be alone for once. But of course Margaery is right on her heels, trailing her with her swooshing petticoats and her dainty silken slippers, she follows Sansa into her chambers without even bothering to ask whether she’s welcome. That the other young ladies of her usual retinue – Janei Lannister and Desmera Redwyne, the Master of Ships’ daughter, and her distant cousin Caretta Estermont – are nowhere to be seen since they left the sept is a small blessing, but Margaery, being family, has no reason to keep her distance even in this hour of mourning.

She involuntarily grits her teeth as she exchanges pleasantries with Ser Jaime who is in charge of guarding her today and tonight, but as soon as the door is closed Sansa discards her cloak, one of heavy black fabric because showing too much of the bright and cheerful Baratheon yellow and gold wouldn’t be appropriate for mourning despite it being the family colours, and leaning her hands onto her mahogany dressing table she gives a deep and forlorn sigh. All she wants to do is kick off her shoes and flop down on her bed that’s all too inviting, covered in plush embroidered cushions and luscious silken duvets under a gauzy pastel-coloured canopy, but of course she can’t. Not yet, at least. With a swift step Margaery is behind her and starts to fuss with her hair and her black gown unbidden. Their gazes meet in the ornate gilded mirror for a split second – Sansa can’t help but notice that she looks utterly dreadful while Margaery is as radiant as ever – before Margaery’s lips curl into a tiny scowl and her hands start rubbing at Sansa’s neck and shoulders. The motion doesn’t feel soothing at all and Sansa can’t help but jerk away.

“You’re so tense, sweetling,” Margaery croons, “are you feeling quite alright?”

Sansa wants to snap at her for asking such an inane question. She had just spent hours kneeling next to her royal father’s dead body in the clammy twilight of the Grand Sept of Baelor, listening to the Septon’s seemingly endless incantations and her siblings’ badly contained sniffling; how could one possibly think that she would feel anything even remotely close to _quite alright_? She likes Margaery well enough, they’re only some three years apart in age and have grown close ever since she came to court when she married Uncle Renly, but she can get overbearing at times and there is something about her whole demeanour that makes Sansa wonder whether she’s fully sincere.

Sansa sighs again, rubbing her temples and pulling the tiara out of her raven-black hair in one swift motion. She hates the thing, it’s awfully plain and doesn’t sit quite right on her head, uncomfortable to the point of inducing a headache. She’d wanted to wear her favourite, the one that has tiny winter roses fashioned from sapphires and brings out her blue eyes so well, but it wasn’t considered appropriate for mourning. Sansa had been so very annoyed at that, considering that said tiara had been a gift from her father for her thirteenth nameday, one she cherished above all else because he’d flashed one of his broad toothy smiles at her and told her that it made her look so much like her mother when she was younger with winter roses in her hair. Something in her chest clenches at the memory.

“I might ring for some honeyed milk froth. It was quite chilly in the sept after all.”

“That sounds like a perfectly reasonable idea.” Thankfully, Margaery has ceased her attempts at massage and starts to unlace the bodice instead. “I’ll see to it as soon as you’ve changed out of this gown into something more comfortable. It is getting late after all, and supper will be but a small family affair tonight.”

Sansa gives a disinterested nod before she reaches up over her shoulder and purposefully touches her hand to Margaery’s. “Now that I think about it, my dear … would you check on the little ones? I’m a woman grown, I can handle myself, but they were so distraught earlier.”

“Of course,” Margaery flashes a smile that’s just a bit too wide to be appropriate, and then she’s back to gushing, “Gods, poor things! I know exactly how they must feel. I was about Alys’ age when my dear great-uncle Moryn died …”

Sansa cannot help the scoff that escapes her, it is all that keeps her from sobbing. “With all due respect, my dear, I don’t doubt that you loved your lord great-uncle dearly, but it cannot possibly compare to the loss of a father.”

She cannot help feeling a tad triumphant when Margaery demurely lowers her gaze, mumbling an apology, and then she turns to squeeze her hand again. She knows that Margaery hadn’t meant any harm, that she’d been thoughtless at best, but it hurt nevertheless. _There’s a reason why there’s a word for children who have lost a parent and none for children who have lost some distant relative_ , she thinks to herself _._ The Septon had been preaching at length about the love the Gods bear the poor and precious orphans, and she had knelt wondering whether the old man was even aware that one of the ‘poor and precious’ little orphans was now his rightful king.

“Will you look out for Alysanne?” she finds herself pleading, “Everyone will be with Tommen because he’s so young and he’s the king now, but Alys … she’s taking it hard I’m afraid and she needs someone to lean onto. I would go to her myself but I’m afraid I rather need to take a nap first.”

“Of course,” Margaery says hurriedly, “She won’t be overlooked, I promise. I’ll send for your milk and then I’ll go to her. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, but thank you, my dear.” Sansa presses out a smile. “You may leave.”

Margaery gives a curt nod and retreats and Sansa wonders what made her sound so overly formal. It wasn’t like her, she doesn’t fancy herself a princess who gives condescending and magnanimous orders, her mother had taught her well about the importance of being close friends with one’s ladies in waiting after all. More likely than not the tension that was still in her shoulders was to blame … and then a stray thought knocks her right in the gut.  _Father's death changes everything_ , she realises, and she's unsure whether that's a good thing.  _Uncle Stannis will be Tommen's heir until he has sons of his own ... and that might be years, a decade more likely! And when he comes to court he'll bring his family and Aunt Cersei will make sure that everyone remembers that she's the Crown Princess now._  She cannot say why she finds the thought so disconcerting.

Sansa sits back, busying herself with pulling pins out of her hair until her curls come tumbling, and for all that she’s exhausted to the bone she finds herself restless. Her mind keeps wandering back to the sept, to the nauseating incense that’s meant to cover up the even more nauseating stench of death, to the painted stones on her father’s eyes glaring at her coldly and disapprovingly, and further still, to his deathbed, the cold sticky sweat on his palms as he clutched her hands, his laboured breath and her mother’s petrified face … and she doesn’t want to think about it, not at all. Now that she’s finally alone she wants to cry, she knows that she’s _supposed_ to cry because the Stranger had taken her father and she’s an orphan now, but the tears won’t come. She straightens out the necklace she’s been wearing, lays it out on the dressing table next to the tiara for the maids to do away with, and then she takes to fussing with the glossy black ribbon she’d worn in her hair, wrapping it meticulously around the spool.

 _Not worthy_ , a booming voice in her head says, a voice she’ll never hear yelling and ranting at her again, a voice she’ll never hear slurring endearments as soon as he regrets his ire again. She’s not worthy to be a daughter if she can’t even find it in her heart to weep for her deceased father; she’s not worthy to be a princess of the realm when she doesn’t grieve for the late king accordingly. She bites her lip until it bleeds instead, and then she leaps up in frustration, squiggling out of her dress and her petticoats. She cannot remember when she last had to care for her own garments, there’s usually a whole gaggle of ladies and maids around her whenever she gets ready for anything, so she struggles to get it all straightened out and hung on the mannequin and the rod-on-wheels next to her dressing table, and it makes her feel both strangely embarrassed and strangely accomplished. She could probably get away with tossing everything onto the floor, but she’s a woman grown after all, she can take care of herself.

She paces restlessly, trying not to blink because every time she closes her eyes all she sees are her father’s bloodshot eyes and the drizzle of wine in his beard when his raucous laughter drowns every conversation in the room. She tries to conjure happier memories, and all of a sudden she’s more worried for Alys than before. She must have been about her sister’s age when the admiration for her father had started to cease, when she first realised how inappropriate his behaviour was and how much she disliked his too-rough kisses to her cheek and slaps that were meant to be playful to her behind. It hurt tremendously, realising that he was only a man, and not a particularly good one at that. _Would that Alys could keep the happy memories and only the happy memories. We were spared the rod and the belt, being girls, but …_

Finally, she sits. At her desk, in nothing but her smallclothes, she lights a candle and sharpens a quill without actually being aware of what she’s doing and why. For all that she had spent the better part of the day wishing to be left in peace she suddenly feels terribly alone and wishing she hadn’t sent Margaery away in the first place, longing for a familiar voice and someone to share her darkening thoughts with before they suffocated her.

 _My dear Robb,_ she writes, and then she finds herself staring at the words for longer than she cares to admit even to herself. Why she chose to write to him instead of going to be with her mother and her siblings or taking the nap she needed so much, she couldn’t say. It wasn’t exactly necessary after all … the maester had taken care of sending ravens to every castle and keep in the Seven Kingdoms, carrying the grave message about the demise of the King, and her mother had certainly written a personal letter to her brother and his family, explaining everything that wasn’t included in the official missive. Sending a letter to Robb on top of that seems silly and indulgent, but Sansa can’t help herself.

She needs somebody to talk to. She’d dismissed Margaery rather harshly only a moment before, and even if she hadn’t tasked her with looking after Alys she wouldn’t want to impose. Her ladies aren’t an option either; somehow it’s different with Margaery, possibly because she’s married to Uncle Renly and therefore family, but she wouldn’t dare admit her weaknesses and her innermost feelings to any of her companions, she knows better than that. Alas, she finds herself at a loss. Alys and Tommen wouldn’t understand, they’re children after all. Mother and Uncle Renly aren’t an option either, she wouldn’t want to bother them now for she’s well aware that they have more than grief to deal with. She briefly considers turning to Septa Alladis, the kind religious woman who had been her governess since she was old enough to leave the nursery, but in the end she’d just tell her to pray some more and everything would turn out alright.

Robb it is, then. She bites her lip, thinking that baring her innermost thoughts to her betrothed might seem terribly improper; but then again they’re to be married sooner rather than later and over the course of three years since his first visit to the capital their letters have been getting ever sweeter and more personal. Once he’d addressed her as _My Princess_ and she him as _Cousin Robert_ , which had gradually evolved to _Dear Cassana_ and _Dear_ _Robb_ during their first year of correspondence, and by now she would certainly startle and wonder what’s wrong would he not call her _Sweet Sansa_ in his letters that never cease to make her blush.

 _He sounds so much like his father,_ her mother said with a wistful smile when she shared bits and pieces of one of Robb’s letters on one occasion. Sansa had never taken Uncle Ned for a poet, but then again … Mother would know better, being his sister and a close friend to his lady wife, and even stern and unsmiling Uncle Ned and cool and elegant Aunt Ashara must have been young and in love at some point …

She absentmindedly runs her fingers over the stack of Robb’s letters hidden away in the top drawer of her desk. She won’t allow herself to re-read them once again, she cannot indulge in being a silly swooning maiden any longer. If she’s entirely honest she doesn’t have to re-read the letters, she knows all the important bits by heart and she knows that she’s lucky. Luckier than many a princess, luckier than most highborn ladies. Robb obviously cares for her and his affection and dedication bleed into each and every of his words, and while she’s not quite convinced that it’s _love_ there’s certainly _something_ there that would be a solid foundation for their marriage.

 _What’s the point of a marriage if you can’t tell each other everything?_ she thinks, and then, _Whatever. I can always decide to not send this letter_ _after all_ _._ _But I need someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to care._ _Even if he’s half a world away._

So she writes up a storm, not caring about propriety, venting her thoughts and emotions in ink on parchment without inhibition, and she refuses to feel ashamed even though she realises somewhere that she must be rambling incoherently until she’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” she calls out, setting the quill aside.

“The Queen to see you, princess,” Ser Jaime, faithfully guarding her door, responds.

“Do let her in.”

She stands to meet her mother, promptly forgetting to curtsy when she sees her carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of honeyed milk and a plate of lemon cakes. She cannot possibly fathom how she manages to do it all at once and with such grace and sheer effortlessness: to be the queen (and she realised long ago that this queen had taken on more duties then most, given that the king was more interested in hunting and feasting than ruling), to be a wife (and she sincerely hopes that her own marriage wouldn’t be anything like her parents’), and to be a mother. She’s tremendously grateful that she finds herself in a tight hug, and then they’re sitting on her bed and she’s sobbing into the nape of her mother’s neck as if she were a little girl again.

“I know, sweetling, I know,” her mother murmurs, peppering kisses into her hair.

Sansa blinks, looking up at her, the question evident in her tear-stained face.

“I know that you’ve come to realise what kind of man your father is. It’s alright to have conflicted emotions, especially now that he’s no longer with us. I do, too, and I was his wife.” Her mother gives a wan smile and runs her thumbs over Sansa’s cheeks to wipe the tears away. “You can always talk to me, sweetling, and you can be honest with me.”

“Thank you, Mother. That means a lot.” Sansa takes a sip of her milk, cradling the mug in her hands and oozing in the fragrances of honey and cinnamon and warm spices. “I was about to tell Robb about it, but … some things shouldn’t be put in writing.”

A proud smile flickers over her mother’s face as she nods solemnly. “You’re right, it’s smart to be prudent. Nevertheless … I’m glad that you like him well enough, Sansa.”

She feels a blush creeping up her cheeks, and of course her mother notices before she can hide her face in the mug. Thinking about Robb makes her belly do somersaults and _thinking_ about thinking about Robb makes her ears burn with embarrassment. She doesn’t quite feel ready to share this with her mother, though, or anyone actually; acting the blasé and indifferent young noblewoman biding her time in boredom until her parents inform her of impending wedding plans is easier than admitting to feelings she doesn’t quite understand. When she closes her eyes she can see his handsome chiselled face with the impossibly high cheekbones and the floppy fair hair that’s prone to falling into his forehead and over his sparkling purple eyes. It’s his eyes that mesmerised her first, and she cannot say whether it’s the unusual colouring – a Dayne trait, Aunt Ashara has the same eyes, only a shade lighter, and Sansa secretly hopes that some of her children might inherit it – or the warmth and laughter that’s reflected in his gaze. She might have spent too much time looking into his eyes the last time they met, a year and a half ago when he came to court to attend Uncle Renly and Margaery’s wedding on his way home after a tour of the Seven Kingdoms, but he wasn’t exactly complaining.

“You love him,” Mother states, and Sansa’s glad that there is not a trace of mockery or condescension in her deep voice. “Does he feel the same for you?”

Sansa shrugs. “I think so,” she says, even though she doesn’t quite know how to tell. “I hope so,” she adds with a shy and crooked half-smile.

“Good. You need to stand together, now more than ever.” Sansa cocks her head aside, unsure of what her mother is implying, but the worrying look on her face is gone before she can ask. “Write to him, only leave out the more personal bits for when you meet in person. He’ll appreciate it, I’m sure he’s worried about you now that he’s heard the news.”

“Never mind. If he’s coming for the coronation the letter won’t reach him in time.”

“Have it sent to White Harbour, then, so that Lord Lamprey can pass it on once they arrive. They’ll be taking the ship from there, and even if they’ve left Winterfell already the trip will take a sennight.”

“Lord Lamprey?” Despite having spent much time and effort in learning the houses and sigils of the North, as is common decency for the betrothed of Winterfell’s heir, the name doesn’t sound familiar at all.

Her mother chuckles with rather unmajestic mischief in her slate-grey eyes. “Wyman Manderly that is, Lord of White Harbour and Warden of the White Knife. Don’t you worry, my dear, there’s no such thing as House Lamprey.”

Sansa grins sheepishly. “I thought they called him the Merman, not the Lamprey.”

“Lord Manderly is many things, the most loyal bannerman you could wish for first and foremost, but he’s no merman. You’ll understand once you meet him.” Her mother smirks again. “I’ve half a mind to ask him to send one of his granddaughters along as a companion to you. They must be around your age and some Northern influence will do you a world of good.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.” Sansa gives a non-committal shrug, but she thinks she wouldn’t mind a fresh face among her gaggle of ladies. Margaery seems to be the only one capable of intelligent conversation, Delena and Caretta and the handful of Tyrell cousins from Margaery's own entourage are all giggles and vapid chatter and if she’s entirely honest she doesn’t care much for simpering Janei. Furthermore, having a loyal friend in the North apart from her Stark cousins when she goes north to marry Robb and subsequently become Lady of Winterfell – not for many years, she hopes, Uncle Ned is a man in his prime after all, so they’ll most likely serve in his household or hold a smaller keep somewhere for the time being, Robb had mentioned something about restoring a castle named Moat Cailin – would certainly be a benefit.

“You’re looking forward to Robb’s arrival, then?” her mother wants to know.

Sansa nods sheepishly. “Is that terribly unseemly, considering …?”

“Oh no, sweetling.” Her mother smiles wistfully, reaching over to stroke Sansa’s hair in a gesture that makes her feel like a little girl again. “Life goes on no matter what and we have to make the best of it. Nobody understood that better than your father.” Leaning into her mother’s shoulder Sansa suppresses a sigh. She can’t help thinking that it doesn’t really sound like a compliment, but she wouldn’t dare say anything. “He very much wanted to see you and Robb married, it was all his idea after all. He might regret not being able to dance at your wedding but he wouldn’t begrudge you your happiness. He did love you very much, and he was very proud of the woman you’ve become.”

The part of Sansa that’s still a little girl curled up at her mother’s side tears up at the thought, but the other part, the adult and detached woman that is the Princess Cassana, doesn’t want to believe it. Her mother, unsettlingly perceptive as always, seems to sense the conflict that’s raving inside her.

“Alas he was never good at showing affection.” _Unless it concerned_ _some_ _serving girl with a pretty face,_ Sansa thinks bitterly, but she bites her tongue and lets her mother continue. “I will not speak ill of the dead, least of all your father. He was … flighty, that’s for sure, but don’t let that fool you. At the same time he was a deeply passionate man unafraid to stand up and fight, unapologetically and relentlessly so, for the select few he truly cared for and believed in.” She takes a moment to regain her composure, swallowing her emotions. “Sansa, sweetling, I know that you’ve been rather … wary, for lack of a better word, of your father and his actions this past year, and I won’t hold it against you. It’s a discussion for another day. But if you’ve inherited any one character trait of his, let it be this.”

A sudden wave of insecurity builds up inside her; she bites her lip, and after a long period of companionable silence she finally musters up the courage to ask what she wanted to know all along. “Mother,” she says, awkwardly scrambling for words, “Father started a war for you to save you from the dragon prince.” As a young princess partial to tales of valiant and honourable knights she’s heard the story a million times and then some, and knowing that it was such a vital a part of her own story she’d always preferred it to the historic tales and legends. Growing up she thought that Florian and Jonquil couldn’t hold a candle to Robert and Lyanna. “I mean no disrespect, Mother, but I’ve always wondered … how come you ended up like this, going out of your way to go out of each other’s way?”

Seeing her mother flinch hurts so much she regrets asking, but she cannot take her words back now.

“Robert – your father – he was a soldier first and foremost. He enjoyed a good fight and he loved the thrill of conquest, but …” She pauses pensively. Seeing the queen who has a reputation for being courteous and eloquent at all times so tongue-tied and fumbling for words makes Sansa inherently uncomfortable. “He never thought further than getting what he wanted, disregarding what everyone else might've wanted, and then he found himself at a loss. That’s true for myself as well as for the realm as a whole. I cannot blame him … orphaned so young with a cranky old widower as a foster-father he never learned how to have a family, and he certainly wasn’t raised to be a king. He wanted nothing more than to run from his responsibilities, to go back to being a feckless young lordling playing at swords with not a care in the world, and he acted accordingly.”

Sansa gulps; her mother cracks her knuckles. When their eyes meet, pleading for understanding or compassion at the very least, Sansa realises that this is the first time they truly see eye to eye, not as mother and daughter but as two women. The moment passes too quickly.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I shouldn’t have …”

Her mother is stammering, and Sansa takes her hand.

“It’s alright, Mother. I’ve suspected as much. I’m not a child any longer.” Still it hurts to hear it confirmed so bluntly, she barely manages to pull herself together again. “We must make sure that Tommen …”

“Yes, of course. The next king will be a better king, and we’ll stand by his side.” She squeezes her hand. “Promise me, Sansa.”

“I promise.” Sansa gives a sigh and leans onto her mother’s shoulder ever so briefly. “What is it that they say in mummer’s farces? ‘The king is dead, long live the king!’?”

Her mother gives her a curious look, and then she empties her mug and sets it back onto the tray. “We’ll talk again soon, sweetling, but I’m afraid I have to rush. You, try to find some rest. I’ll see you at dinner. Do you want me to tell Ser Jaime to wake you on my way out?”

“Please do. And ... thank you.”

Sansa nods dutifully and her mother pauses in the doorway.

“Have a lemon cake, sweetling. Cook let me know that they’ve made them especially for you, and Gods know you’ve deserved it.”

Sansa nods again, seeing her mother off. She appreciates the gesture and she’ll make sure to thank the kitchen staff, but she finds that she doesn’t have an appetite for lemon cakes or the lukewarm milk that’s still left in her mug. She reclines with a sigh, welcoming the embrace of silence and fluffy cushions, but sleep doesn’t come easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read and to comment, it really means the world to me! And thank you, Ketch, for being a fantastic beta! :)


	4. Ashara II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell is bustling with activity as the North prepares for the journey to King's Landing. Robb Stark finally learns the truth about himself.

It starts out with a shriek that quickly evolves into a howl, and a gleeful one at that. Arya’s highly selective hearing is in full swing again, only registering the _‘We will be travelling to King’s Landing,_ _departing on the morrow_ _’_ part and ignoring the _‘King Robert has passed away_ _and the realm will be in mourning_ _’_ part that preceded it, and Ashara must – she _must_ – reprimand her harshly instead of bursting out into helpless laughter at her youngest daughter’s antics.

Her gaze wanders across the large trestle table in Winterfell’s main hall where the household has gathered. Despite the grave news from the capital and the ensuing hustle and bustle of preparations everyone seems to be rather composed and focused. _A small mercy_ , Ashara thinks to herself, for she really doesn’t have the nerve to deal with sobbing scullery maids right now. An acute awareness of the superficiality of it all, laced with a not insignificant amount of cynicism, that’s what her younger years at court had left her with. She has never quite understood the point of romanticising and idolising the notion of nobility, of worshipping a monarch hundreds of miles away who hardly affects everyday life, and making a display of grief for a person you never knew seems ridiculous to her.

Ned would grieve in time, despite everything they had been close as brothers once and it would hit him hard, but for now he’s keeping himself busy. Even the older children have only met Robert Baratheon once or twice, they remember him as a distant uncle who features in stories from their parents’ youth and sends presents for their namedays but, unlike their other aunts and uncles – Uncle Aloys and Aunt Ally and Uncle Benjen and, of course, Aunt Lya –, never bothers to write much. She’s never had the heart to tell them that the thoughtful and splendid gifts they adore so much are all Aunt Lya’s doing, too, though she suspects that the older ones might have guessed by now.

Ashara takes a step back, taking her time to commit this last moment of normalcy to memory before chaos ensues and the family is disrupted; as of now they are unaware that today will be the day their lives are to change forever.

Arya, for all that she’s sulking, is looking far less remorseful than she ought to, and of course Serena’s rolling her eyes at her. Bran’s stuffing his face with porridge, intently listening to his lord father, Vayon Poole and the Cassels planning their departure, he looks like he’s holding back a thousand questions as not to delay the onset of what he, like his youngest sister, sees as the adventure of a lifetime. Artie, of course, is beaming with pride and when he tugs Robb’s sleeve the eldest averts his attention from the adult conversation and proceeds to give Artie sage advice about serving as the Stark on Winterfell, all the while tousling his silvery hair. Sweet Rickon is pouting because he’s not to be the Stark at Winterfell and also how dare anyone go away when he’s to celebrate his fifth nameday in a fortnight ( _‘Not a fortnight, seventeen days! That’s three days more than a fortnight!’_ he insists, because Maester Luwin had only recently started him on his numbers), and Serena turns to him with words of consolation and an extra dollop of cloudberry preserves to go with his flatbread and cream. If she’s disappointed that she won’t go to the capital with them, and she must be for she’s always dreamt of the fabulous and fashionable life at Aunt Lyanna’s court, she doesn’t show it one bit, keeping her chin up and delving head-first into her new role as lady of the castle and caretaker for her younger brothers in her parents’ absence.

Ashara’s gaze wanders from one child to the other and as she considers how beautiful they all are she remembers with a twinge in her chest how terrified she had been with every subsequent pregnancy.

Brandon came as a shock fifteen years ago, the spitting image of his father with mousy brownish hair and slate-grey eyes, he grew up to be stocky and plain and dour-faced and had she not laboured for eighteen painful hours to bring him into this world she would doubt that he had any drop of Dayne blood in him at all. Two years of fearful prayer paid off when Serena opened her eyes and they were purple, not violet like her own but a deep indigo that reminds her of Arthur and Rhaegar, and she had never been more relieved. Serena is a lady both in personality and in looks, and with every passing year the remarks about how her beauty and her grace, akin to the legendary beauty of her lady mother in younger years, was wasted in the North increased. The dread Ashara feels at that could not be put into words, and it was reason enough not to take her to the capital. Arya might have a harder time at court, given her free spirit, but she at least won’t turn heads. Her features are plain and northern and still rather boyish, though she suspects that she might grow up to resemble her aunt Lyanna, her hair is a shade darker than Ned’s and her light eyes have only the slightest purple tinge. Artie’s much like Arya in colouring and features, only his eyes are more intensely purple and even at seven years old it’s obvious that he has the Dayne build and will grow up to be tall and lithe. With little Rickon it’s hard to tell, he’s still so young, apart from a mop of pale curls and a pair of dark-grey eyes he’s still too pudgy to look like a Stark or a Dayne, and that he looks like a happy little boy is more than enough. And then there’s Robb who doesn’t have one drop of First Men blood in him, not for five generations at least, and yet he resembles them who had become his parents and his siblings so much that nobody ever thought to question his ancestry.

She shakes her head sadly, trying and failing to will away the thought of what’s to come, and turns her attention away from her children and back to the conversation.

“Southron frivolities!” Vayon Poole huffs indignantly, “If you don’t mind me saying, milord.”

“Common courtesy!” Ned growls back, “True enough, we do things differently here in the North and we have every right to pride ourselves in our ways, nevertheless we are a part of the Seven Kingdoms and need to pay our respects. We need to show them that the North is a force to be reckoned with, so we will take as many men as we can spare and participate in the tourney that’s being held in the new king’s honour.” Diplomacy had never been one of his strong suits, but seeing that Poole isn’t quite convinced yet he changes his tune, “It might be an interesting experience for our men, they might even learn something.”

“Jousting in fancy armour doesn’t prepare you one bit for real combat.” Jory Cassel mutters under his breath, ignoring the disdainful glance his uncle Ser Rodrik, one of the few Northmen anointed as a knight, shoots him.

“We’re not raising an army and going to war,” Ned says, because of course he’d overheard, his voice full of stern condescension, “A dozen riders with heavy horse in full kit, maybe a score, and a choice of skilled swordsmen and archers from every house will do nicely. And if these can be found among their usual retinue, ever the better!”

Ashara gives a deep sigh; she doesn’t envy her husband one bit for the part he has to play. The irony isn’t lost on her; Robb was well-loved among the Northmen, adored by nobility and smallfolk alike, and they probably wouldn’t hesitate to rally their forces for his sake. Safety had to be a priority, though, and the fewer people knew the better, at least for the time being, so they had to call the banners without actually calling the banners, and they had to convince as many lords as possible to come with them and partake in _Southron frivolities_ because they needed every man in case something went wrong – and it probably would, she wasn’t naive enough to be overly optimistic. Alas, it’s not the right time or place to speak up, so she stands back and listens to the men quarrelling while she finishes her tea and gives out orders to the maids who have started to pack the household up for a month of travel.

“This is my last word on the matter,” Ned says sternly, and it piques her attention, “Maester Luwin, you will send out ravens to all our sworn houses. Let them know that I expect their cooperation and that I will deal with any of their concerns in person. If it serves no other purpose it will allow me to properly determine which of my sworn lords take their responsibilities seriously and who has let themselves get soft over the course of a decade of peace and a too-long summer.”

“Certainly, milord,” the maester nods dutifully and shuffles away.

“We will depart as soon as possible,” Ned reiterates, “The host will leave a sennight from now at the very latest, and we’ll send a smaller party ahead. Lady Stark and Lord Robb will depart on the morrow, they’ll ride for White Harbour and take the seaway from there together with Lord Manderly’s men.”

“My goodsister the Queen and my future gooddaughter the Princess Cassana will want for company in their hour of grief,” Ashara puts in, sensing the increasing strain in Ned’s voice, “We’ll arrive well ahead of the host when we’re only a small party, ahorse and able to move independently, we might even be able to make it in time for the funeral proper. Jory, yourself and two reliable men of your choosing are to accompany us. We’ll be travelling light, we can take one pack-horse with us, but everything else we might need for court will be dispatched with the main convoy.”

“Yes, milady,” Jory says, much less grudgingly than before.

“Can I come?” Arya pipes up, “Riding and sailing sounds far more fun than a stupid wheelhouse! And I can be nice to Alys and little Tommen while you’re busy with Aunt Lya and Cousin Sansa!”

“It’s _King_ Tommen now,” Serena cries, scandalised.

“Not until the coronation, actually,” Robb puts in, “But that’s just a formality of course, so if you want to be polite …”

“King or not, I _expect_ you to be nice to your cousins,” Ashara puts in with a wry smile, “We’ll see about that, Arya. You’ll see to it that preparations are made, Jory? I wish to leave at first light.”

“I expect that everyone knows their tasks?” Ned says, and it’s more of an order than a question that’s met with a chorus of _yes milords_ , “Now if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I have private family matters to discuss. Robb?”

Robb stands hurriedly, tousling Artie’s hair once again, and Ned nods his head towards the door. Ashara takes a deep breath and one last look at her family before she follows them to the godswood.

Ned’s pace is fast and purposeful as they cross the courtyard and neither of them says a word before they find themselves standing before the heart tree. After the stifling atmosphere in the great hall the crispness of the late summer morning is a relief. Noon is rapidly approaching but in the thicket of the forest the hoarfrost on the grass and in the foliage has just so started to thaw away and a crisp dry breeze is painting silvery ripples on the surface of the dark pond. The three of them stand in silence for a moment, touching their palms to the weirwood’s trunk where the sticky red sap oozes into the smooth white bark, closing their eyes in prayer – a deeply-rooted instinct for Ned and Robb, a ritual she’s come to cherish despite her Dornish origin for Ashara. She seldom asks anything of the gods, preferring to contemplate peacefully, but now she finds herself pleading for strength.

The moment is over too fast. When she opens her eyes again she notices a curious and somewhat worried look on Robb’s face, and she has to laud his self-control as he patiently stands waiting for a minute longer, waiting for his father to finish his prayers, before he speaks up.

“Mother, Father … What is it?”

“Robb,” she says softly, reaching out to touch his forearm and fighting the urge to call him by names of endearment he doesn’t appreciate any longer now that he’s a man grown, “Robb, what you’re about to learn will not be easy, not for any of us, which is why I need you to remember that we love you very much and you’re our son, no matter what.” She sighs, squeezing his hand. “Your father and I have thought long and hard about how and when to tell you, but in the end it wouldn’t have changed anything. But now the time has come and …”

Robb tenses, scanning her face warily for any trace of emotion that might hint at what to expect before his eyes dart over to his father who stands stoically. “You’re scaring me, Mother,” he says.

Ned moves closer to her as if he were stealthily seeking support, and their shoulders are touching just barely as he begins to speak. “What we’re about to tell you is a dangerous secret, one that’s been well kept for the better part of two decades. Only a handful of people know, and all of us have dedicated our lives to keeping it safe. Given the circumstances it is vital that you learn the truth now, and I understand that it will be disturbing for you … Nevertheless, I must ask you that this stays between the three of us for the time being. You cannot tell anyone, not even Bran or Arya, for your own safety as well as theirs. Do you understand that?”

“Of course.” Robb gives a solemn nod and despite being visibly anxious she can tell that he’s also secretly proud, anticipating to be included in some kind of adult matter. He has longed for responsibility so long now, and he’s never disappointed them before.

“As your mother said,” Ned continues, “there is no way to make this any easier, so I’ll be blunt.”

“It’s perfectly alright, Father. Whatever it is, I can take it. I’m a man grown after all.”

From the corner of her eye Ashara sees a twitch tugging at Ned’s lips, and she finds it gut-wrenchingly endearing how the son is trying to reassure his father.

“Seventeen years ago in the aftermath of war my sister Lyanna approached us and asked us a favour. We were newlyweds back then and she wasn’t yet queen but not a maiden either.” Ned gives a deep sigh, there’s a flicker of sadness on his face and Ashara, shifting closer to him, averts her gaze because she cannot bear looking at him if she wants to keep her composure. “She asked us to help her bring the surviving Targaryen children to safety.”

“What?” Robb blurts out, and despite everything Ashara can suppress the motherly instinct to remind him that it’s _‘beg pardon’_ only very barely. “Why would she? After everything that dastardly brute did to her …”

Ned gives a deep sigh. “Not everything is as it seems, Robb. Sometimes there is no right choice to make, so all you can do is not make the wrong one. That she never corrected anyone that she wasn’t abducted and raped was part of the plan …”

“It’s her story to tell, and she will in time,” Ashara cuts in as she senses Ned struggling, “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen never mistreated Lyanna. I knew him well during my time at court, I can assure you that for all his shortcomings and despite his sire Rhaegar was never a violent or vicious man, it’s simply not in his nature.”

“But … what happened then?” Robb furrows his brow in confusion, “You did go to Dorne to rescue Aunt Lyanna from that wretched tower where she was being held, and you made a slight detour to Starfall to be there for my birth before you escorted Aunt Lyanna to the capital where she was reunited with her beloved King Robert.”

She’d told the story so many times she nearly believed it herself … especially the part about Ned being there by her side and holding her hand as she was labouring, as he had done for every subsequent birth. Birthing her first child had been a terrifying and lonely affair, even more so when the babe was born blue and limp and silent, dead before she could draw her first breath when she had been so eagerly awaited. That this happened to many a woman – she vividly remembers her own lady mother sitting her down to explain the mechanics of a woman’s body and the intricacies of the marriage bed when she was newly flowered, matter-of-factly telling her about the stillbirths and miscarriages she suffered, one between Aloys and Arthur, three more between herself and little Allyria – was hardly a solace, not when she was alone and afraid and there was a war raging on top of it. She buried little Lemore, named for her lady mother, and when too many weeks passed without word from Ned, fearing that she might have to bury him too, that she’d end up as a widow before they’d truly gotten a chance at married life, just like she’d never gotten the chance to be a mother to the little girl she wanted so much, it was too much to bear and she’d even considered hurling herself off Palestone Sword in the case that Ned wouldn’t return from war. And then everything had come quite differently.

“I did ride to Dorne to rescue Lyanna, only to realise that it wasn’t her in need of rescue.” Ned frowns. “Out of love for her I promised to help her do what she had agreed to do out of love for Rhaegar: to keep his children safe.”

“They were killed during the Sack of King’s Landing,” Robb put in; he was an eager student of history after all, and then it started to dawn upon him, “weren’t they?”

Ned shook his head. “They weren’t. The details matter not, but they were smuggled out of the city in the eleventh hour and brought to safety in Dorne. And that’s where your mother and I come into the picture.”

Robb pales. “But that’s treason …”

“Aye, that it is,” Ned says gravely, finally voicing all the fears they’d never dared speak aloud. “We’ve always known the danger. King Robert forgave almost all his enemies; many times he was more lenient than perhaps he should have been. But this is the one thing he could never have forgiven. He had no mercy in his heart, not there. Had he ever learned we would have faced execution and, more importantly, the young prince’s life would have been forfeit.”

“Why did you do it then? Goodness!” Robb shakes his head, incredulity and fear written all over his face. “I know you love Aunt Lyanna a lot, but … Father!”

“There’s someone I love more than my sister, though.”

Ashara, knowing what’s coming, holds her breath, but Robb catches her unawares.

“Yes, and with all due respect, Father, you should have considered … Gods! Endangering Mother like that, I cannot believe you!”

Ned finds himself at a loss for words.

“He’s not talking about me, Robb,” Ashara says softly.

“I’m talking about you,” Ned, having regained his composure, finishes seamlessly.

“Me?” Robb scoffs, “Not that I’m not flattered, Father, but what’s that to do with anything?”

“Because you are Aegon Targaryen.”

Robb bursts out laughing. He hardly ever laughs as uninhibited as he used to do when he was younger, mayhaps he finds it unbecoming for a young lord, he’s since resorted to mimicking Ned’s mannerisms with curt chortles and the occasional gruff bellow. Now his dimples are showing and there’s tears of hysterical mirth springing into his eyes as he clutches his sides, gasping for breath.

“Last time I was Aegon Targaryen I was playing at swords in the courtyard with the little ones. Now don’t tell me that Arya is Rhaenys or something, she'd much rather be Visenya …”

“We aren’t jesting, Robb.” Ned insists, a harsh thickness threatening to overpower his words. “This is too serious a matter to be jesting about.”

“You were born Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his first wife, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne.”

“I don’t believe you!” As Robb turns away his shoulders are shaking.

Ned takes a step towards him, reaching out to touch a soothing hand to his shoulder, and he doesn’t catch his wife’s warning glare. “Robb …”

“Oh, it’s _Robb_ then after all?” he spits out, “did you not just say it’s Aegon?”

“King Robert wanted you dead. We had to change your name to keep you safe.”

“It cannot be!” Robb repeats, but instead of belligerent he now sounds broken. “I don’t know why you’re so intent on convincing me in this, but … I’m the spitting image of Uncle Arthur after all, that’s what everyone who ever knew him says. I have your eyes, Mother, and Father’s disposition.”

Ashara closes her eyes as images from the past surge over her. She has never permitted herself to think about it and now she cannot find the words to tell him that Arthur and Rhaegar looked so alike that they were occasionally mistaken for brothers, that Arthur never slouched his shoulders the way Robb does and Rhaegar did, that despite the purple colouring that’s more Rhaella than Rhaegar the mischievous twinkle in his eyes is all Elia …

“Robb,” Ashara says, harsher than intended, “Take a good look around. Where are we?”

“In the godswood.”

The rustle of the leaves may be a sign, and if it’s not, it’s soothing at least.

“And you cannot tell falsehoods in the presence of the gods, can you?”

“I always thought that meant you shan’t, not that you’re actually, _literally_ unable to,” Robb puts in meekly, and after a long pause he adds, “I don’t understand.”

“What do you know about the Sack of King’s Landing?” Ned asks.

“When King Robert was victorious on the Trident, the Lord of Lannister finally declared the Westerlands’ allegiance and rode for King’s Landing with a force of twelve thousand, ready to liberate the city,” Robb begins, furrowing his brow as he tries to remember the details, and Ashara, despite herself, gives a secret smile. _Ned knows him so well_ , she thinks with a sense of pride constricting her chest, paradoxically enough it had been the exact right move to placate their son. “The Kingslayer, well, he slew the king and Lord Tywin took the capital with not much resistance. After the Mad King’s reign of terror and the atrocities committed by Prince Rhaegar everyone was more than happy to welcome King Robert, and a new era of safety and prosperity with him. The Targaryen line was extinguished; only Queen Rhaella and her second son fled, but they died in exile shortly after.”

Ashara gulps at his choice of wording. _History is written by the victors indeed_ , she thinks bitterly.

“Only that’s not what happened, is it?” Robb adds almost tonelessly, and the look he gives Ned is pleading, “You’ve been there, Father. What happened?”

Ned’s eyes, firmly glued to some random scar in the heart tree’s bark during Robb’s recount of events, zero in on his son’s anxious face. He awkwardly clears his throat and lifts his chin defiantly before he speaks with pain-addled voice.

“When Robert and I arrived, Ser Jaime sat on the Iron Throne and Lord Tywin had the corpses of Princess Elia and the children laid out on the dais as tokens of his fealty, or rather as trophies; a display of senseless brutality that haunts me to this day. I was staunchly loyal to Robert back then, until I saw him smirking in gleeful triumph and heard him cheering and gloating that the ‘dragonspawn’ had been eliminated once and for all.” Ned chokes, pausing for a moment until he regains his composure enough to go on, and Ashara feels tears welling up in her eyes. “Murder is what it was, murder of two innocent children and a woman who was as much the Mad King’s victim as anyone. There would have been better ways to deal with this problem, sparing their lives, or at least … some kindness, some mercy, in the way they died. A rapid and effective poison, or a couple of soothing words and a pillow to their faces, anything but what they had to endure.”

Robb stands helplessly, incredulously staring at his father for a very long time. He’s no stranger to violence, Ashara knows, after all he’d been just moon’s turn shy of his seventh nameday when he first stood witness to an execution, and three years later when their decimated forces came back from fighting the Greyjoy Rebellion he’d revelled in tales of war, the bloodier the better. But Ashara is fairly certain that he’d never seen tears glistening in his father’s eyes, and it’s no wonder that this scares him more than the image of an infant with a smashed skull who could have been him.

“If what you’re saying is true,” Robb says carefully, “then how come …”

“Elia,” Ashara says, and she has to clear her throat violently before she can continue, “Elia gave her life to save yours and your sister’s. The Queen and Viserys didn’t flee, the Mad King sent them to Dragonstone in a last moment of clarity, but he didn’t allow Elia and the children to go with them because he feared a conspiracy and depended on the Dornish troops.”

“He held them hostage?” Robb asked and Ashara nodded. “Mother,” he went on, his eyes widening, “you used to be Princess Elia’s lady-in-waiting. Were you there with her?”

Ashara shakes her head sadly. “I wasn’t. I often wished that I had been, that I could’ve been there for Elia, that I could’ve done something for her …”

“But you did, my love, _you did_ ,” Ned says roughly, giving her hand a squeeze.

“I had to leave court about half a year earlier, a moon’s turn or two before you were born.” She wants to say something more and decides not to. _Just like Elia, Lemore died so that you might live._ The words are burning on her tongue but Robb has too much to process right now, a dead sister would only make it worse. “I was sent to Starfall at King Aerys’ behest, and I was devastated when I learned what happened. Elia … I loved her dearly, she was like a sister to me.”

“Why did you never tell us about her, then?” Robb asks into the pregnant pause after her voice broke and she needed to take a moment to regain her composure.

“It hurt too much,” she says, angrily wiping at her eye and hoping that Robb would understand, “Also I couldn’t bear lying to you more than necessary.”

“But you did,” Robb snaps back, lashing out again all of a sudden, “You lied to me for all my life! You had me believe that I was your son, gods damn it, and that …”

“Robb!” Ned puts in warningly, but Ashara holds him back. She can see that Robb’s lower lip is quivering, that he’s on the verge of tears, that his anger is the only form of release he has if he can’t admit to his emotions; and of course he can’t, he’s a boy of ten-and-seven whose whole life had just been upended.

“It was necessary,” she states simply, “When Elia realised what the Mad King was up to, that something horrible was about to happen, she knew that she had to act, and fast. She conspired with a knight of the Kingsguard who was loyal to Rhaegar and herself, not Aerys, and her family in Dorne, only it was too late for her. But she managed to see her children to safety before.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I never asked, and everyone who knew is dead by now.” Ashara gives a deep sigh, and she’s glad that Robb doesn’t yank away when she holds her hands out to him. “I remember that we had just received a raven informing us about the Sack of King’s Landing and the fates of Elia and the children. That very night a stray traveller came to the Gate of Dawn and my brother – your uncle Aloys, that is – had half a mind of turning him away because we were in mourning after all, but luckily enough he didn’t.” She pauses for a moment, choking on her emotions, and she can see how Robb’s getting impatient at what he obviously believes to be an irrelevant non-sequitur. “That very night I held you in my arms for the first time, and when you opened your eyes and gave me one of your cranky smiles …”

“Mother …” Robb says, a faint quiver in his voice.

Ashara turns away, finally breaking, and she’s glad that Ned is there to catch her and to awkwardly pet her back as she succumbs to sobbing.

“When I arrived at Starfall your mother had already decided that you would be our son.” Feeling the rumble of Ned’s words in his chest soothes her. “Unbeknownst to her my sister had asked me to help keep you safe and I’d agreed. We were considering a more temporary solution, though, taking you in as a ward until we found a way to bring you out of the country, but your mother was adamant and you had me wrapped around your finger in no time.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Robb wants to know, “I’m inclined to believe you, for this tale sounds entirely too ridiculous and unfathomable to be invented. So … I do appreciate your candour, but what difference does it make?”

Ashara and Ned trade a glance that’s laden with fear, and neither of them finds the words.

“Whatever the circumstances of my birth, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m still your son. I’m Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell …” he pauses there, flinching. “Unless you’re meaning to tell me that … _of course!_ … you want Bran to inherit and me to take the Black for his sake.”

“No!” Ned cries out. “Robb, _no!_ ”

“He’s your blood, I am not,” Robb says bitterly, “I wish I’d known. You should’ve raised me a bastard or something, would’ve made this easier. For Bran, too.”

“You’re no bastard!” Ned cuts in fiercely, “You were born Prince Aegon Targaryen.”

“There’s a Targaryen at the Wall already, I’ll be in good company,” Robb says bitterly. “What’s his name again, Maester Aemon? Brother to Aegon the Unlikely?”

Ashara shakes her head, burying her face in her hand while she wills her heart to beat normally again. _Aegon the Unlikely and his brother Aemon._ The irony isn’t lost on her and the thought alone pains her more than she could possibly say.

“Would that you could be heir to Winterfell,” Ned says, slowly and solemnly, “Only your future holds bigger and more important things than that.”

Robb scoffs.

“Aegon …”

Everything is a haze now, but Ashara realises that this is the first time Ned addresses him by his name, his real name, the name his real parents had chosen for him, and she doesn’t know why it’s this minor detail that breaks her heart.

“Aegon,” Ned repeats, “like it or not, you’re the heir to the Iron Throne. A throne that is vacant right now, so …”

“ _Tommen_ is the heir to the throne!” Robb cries out with a vehemence, interrupting whatever Ned had wanted to say, “You know Tommen, right? My Sansa’s little brother, _the king’s son?”_

“The _usurper’s_ son,” Ashara corrects, “His father took what’s rightfully yours, and the time has come to take it back.”

Robb lets out a strangled laugh. “Right. So I’m to stroll into the Red Keep and simply tell Tommen that I’m sorry, Cousin, your coronation is cancelled because I’m allegedly the last dragon and …” He pauses there, shaking his head incredulously. “Even if I wanted to be king … this is madness!”

“There is a plan, Aegon. A plan that’s been in the making since the day your father drew his last breath on the Trident.”

“Don’t call me Aegon, _Father_!” Robb snaps, “I’m not. I’m not your king.”

“You will be,” Ashara puts in softly as Ned’s face scrunches in pain.

“Preparations are being made as we speak, and while the decision is ultimately yours … you need to know there are many who are loyal to you.”

“They’re delusional, then. How can anyone be loyal to someone he doesn’t know, someone he didn’t even know existed?” Robb scoffs again. “This is utter madness and I won’t have any of it.”

At that, he turns and storms out of the godswood. As Ashara moves to hurry after him, Ned catches her hand and holds her back, drawing her into a fierce embrace instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got much longer than planned, but it couldn't be helped. Sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Thanks to all of you for your kudos and comments, do keep them coming, it's such a motivation! I hope that those of you who have been guessing at Robb's identity last chapter are satisfied now - I hope you weren't offended that I didn't respond to comments as quickly and thoroughly as I usually do (because I do love nerding out with fellow fans!) but it was too much of a spoiler ... also, rest assured: there will be a "Jon Snow" character (i.e. Rhaegar and Lyanna's son), only he won't be the bastard of Winterfell and his name won't be Aegon. He'll make his first appearance three chapters from now.
> 
> Extra thanks to Ketch, my awesome beta whose advice has been invaluable.


	5. Samwell I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are darker things beyond the Wall. The leaders of the Night's Watch are debating how to deal with this threat, and a young steward is terrified.

The Lord Commander’s weekly assemblies were rather tedious to begin with; his sworn brothers, those who have served at the Wall much longer than one Samwell Tarly, are constantly complaining about it, under their breaths of course and they’re only rolling their eyes when nobody’s looking. Not only have these meetings intensified in duration and frequency, they have also become more agitated, but Sam finds he doesn’t mind much. Even if he hadn’t been taught to be attentive and have an eye for detail listening in on the leaders’ deliberations has proven rather interesting and definitely worth aching feet.

It is mid-morning, freezing but for the lacklustre fire glowing in the small hearth, and the Old Bear and his most trusted senior officers are gathered in the conference room, sharing lukewarm ale and thinly-veiled insults. The maester and the first steward stick their heads together as always, the first ranger and the master-at-arms are glaring at each other in contempt, but Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander, stares them all down as their voices are rising once again. Samwell notices that they are an unusually small group today; both the first builder, Othell Yarwyck, and the majority of officers and minor leaders are absent from today’s meeting and that it’s probably deliberate has him a tad worried.

He’s shuffling in the shadows, dutiful yet unseen, ever-present yet overlooked; it’s what a steward does and for the first time in his life Samwell thinks that he’s actually good at something he’s supposed to do. He keeps the jug of ale in his hands full, his ears open and his mind sharp, attuned to the unvoiced wishes of his betters. Too focused on the matters they are discussing they don’t even seem to register his presence, and it’s taken him long enough to realise that there’s no malice in that. Fat and clumsy he’d always stuck out like a sore thumb, and when his father or his father’s men had ignored him it had never not been purposeful, a punishment even. Here, it’s just the way things are. He’s blending in as a part of the room, his presence is all but expected, but he’s not a part of the illustrious group seated around the large trestle table, he’s little more than a child that’s to be seen but not heard, a piece of the inventory more likely, like the ugly tapestry on the far side of the room that no one ever noticed until it was taken down for maintenance one day and everyone who entered commented on how there was something strange, something missing, something wrong, and yet no-one could quite put their finger on what it was.

The fighting that isn’t quite fighting, because men on the Wall fight with swords not with words, goes on and on and on. For but a moment Samwell is tempted to pay attention to nothing but the ale in the pewter tankards, forgoing what seems like nothing but petty quarrels, but in the end he knows better.

“Need I remind you that we serve the realms of men, not the crown?” the Lord Commander bellows, deep and rumbling.

The men lower their gazes, staring at the dark marbled patterns of wood in the table’s polished surface before they raise their voices again in agitated debate.

“Nevertheless we’ve always needed the crown’s support in order to be able to serve the realms of men accordingly,” Bart puts in sagely, “For all that the Night’s Watch prides itself on independence … we aren’t self-sufficient any longer, haven’t been for quite some time now. Not since before any of us here have joined the ranks, let’s be honest.”

“We need reinforcements, now more than ever,” Ser Alliser Thorne adds, and Samwell can barely suppress a laugh. Never before have the master-at-arms and the first steward seen eye to eye, let alone in a matter of import. “I’m not even talking about armaments, albeit those haven’t been updated since Jaehaerys II’s day either. We’ve had more losses recently, more than the new arrivals can compensate for,” Ser Alliser continues with a disgruntled sneer, “We’ve lost many a good man out there while the newest recruits aren’t worth their weight, and the handful who do show some promise will need way more training until they’re able to hold their own.”

Benjen Stark, the first ranger, gives a grave nod. “Three of them cannot replace one Ser Hrendym, not by a long shot. As of now, they’re a liability at best, leaving the Wall all but undefended.”

“They’ll fall like flies beyond the wall, pathetic lot,” Ser Alliser agrees disdainfully, “I’m doing my best, but I’m no wizard either.”

Lord Commander Mormont gives a huff, cracking his knuckles.

“Have our recruiters dispatched to King’s Landing, Lord Commander,” Stark suggests, thoughtfully rubbing his stubbly beard, “The whole realm will be coming together for the tourney and the coronation, and many a second or third son and even more overlooked squires who might be amenable to the idea of joining our ranks will be in attendance. Men of honour and duty, men who have wielded a sword before, not just random criminals and misfits.”

When Samwell shuffles closer to refill their tankards unbidden only Bart, his superior, bothers to acknowledge his presence with a quiet nod of thanks and then a barely noticeable shake of his head when he goes on to tend to Ser Alliser. Samwell understands what he doesn’t say, knowing full well how unbearable the stern master-at-arms can be when he’s well into his cups, and he complies with a curt nod of his own. Thankfully, Ser Alliser is too involved in his tirade to notice that the ever-dutiful cupbearer doesn’t pour his tankard up to the brim.

“Noble cause or not, you cannot expect a lord to approve of poaching his men!” he finally growls after having ranted for a minute or maybe five, putting down a fist to the tabletop.

“It’s not exactly poaching now, is it?” Stark puts in, thunderously, “The crown is all but required to …”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Stark. It’s a time-honoured tradition is all, the crown supporting the watch in exchange for protection the realm, it’s not the law.” There is no trace of judgement in the Lord Commander’s face nor in his voice, sharp as it may be; he is simply stating the facts. “A duty that has more often than not fallen to the Northern houses alone, as a matter of course more than anything, as you’re well aware.”

“Last time the crown actually cared to send capable men to the Wall was two decades ago when _His Grace_ was eager to rid himself of his enemies,” Ser Alliser spits out full of disdain while Stark only clenches his lips into a tight, bloodless line.

The air in the room is so tense it could’ve been cut with a blade, and a blunted one at that. Holding his breath Samwell remembers that Ser Alliser himself used to be one of King Robert’s enemies, a Targaryen loyalist sent to the Wall because he refused to bend the knee to the _usurper_. He cannot help but wince, for all that he’s never felt any kind of sympathy towards the hardened old knight and vice versa, but it’s not his place to have an opinion after all, he was but a babe when the Rebellion happened and now he was but a simple steward doing his duty, so he shuffles back into the shadows, steadying the toppling jug of ale with his left hand.

“Let bygones be bygones, Thorne, for this is the dawning of a new era,” Maester Aemon says, barely raising his brittle voice. Did Sam imagine it, or was there a sense of warning in his tone?

“King Robert is no more,” the Lord Commander puts in, weighing every word as he weighs his heavy head from side to side, “We can only hope that the new king is more amenable to our requests than his late father ever was. We know now that the threat looming beyond the Wall is real, and that it’s more than some stray savages.”

As the men’s expressions darken again a cold shiver runs down Samwell’s back. Would that he were made of sterner stuff, but every aspect of life on the Wall scares him shitless – snowstorms, direwolves, wildling raids – so he’d been doing his very best not to listen whenever conversation turns to an uncertain threat nobody really understands yet.

Having studied the chronicles of the Night’s Watch, religiously so, Samwell is well aware that they have lost more and more men on rangings over the course of the last couple of years, more often than not under mysterious circumstances. At the same time, the number of wildlings captured in an attempt to scale the wall and trespass into the Seven Kingdoms has risen significantly. Samwell had wanted to believe in a coincidence, especially when both Bart and Maester Aemon had reassured him and reminded him not to pay any heed to gossip and the tall tales the rangers liked to tell to stewards and builders, embellishing their deeds and adventures, but then, nary a year after he’d taken the Black, there had been some incidences that couldn’t be ignored.

Borys, a good-natured lad who had shared Samwell’s quarters when they were still novices, had returned from a ranging as the only survivor of his team, and in addition to his injuries it seemed that he had lost his mind. He was rambling about monsters in the forests and the dead coming alive again, which had Maester Aemon worried because he wasn’t even running a fever, until he disappeared without a trace one day. Nary a moon’s turn later, Ser Jaremy Rykker’s team captured some wildlings near the Nightfort, not a raiding party but a small group that oddly enough consisted only of women and children. Samwell had been tasked to transcribe the interrogation protocols, and when all three women – girls, actually, barely older than Samwell himself – stated that they’d rather face an uncertain future and possible death in the south than have their children sacrificed to someone – or _something_ – they called the  _White Walker_ , Samwell was probably more terrified than they were. Incidents like these had amassed and had become impossible to ignore. There was something going on out there, something dark and terrifying, that much was certain. One of his fellow stewards, one Jarlon Flint who was assigned to tend to the Lord Commander personally, was a Northman by birth and upbringing, and he’d spent many a night recounting old lore of what he called the _Others_ – undead men of ice and evil, wights of rotten flesh with no will of their own, giant spiders with icicle fangs crawling from the Lands of Always Winter, and so many more Samwell didn’t care to remember – that bore uncanny resemblance to what those who were lucky enough to return from beyond the Wall believe to have seen. Would that it were but idle gossip and exaggerated tales about creatures from stories! By the time Gared and Will deserted a moon’s turn or so ago, claiming that their leader, young Ser Waymar, had been killed by a ghoul with piercing blue eyes only to rise again and turn on them, even the staunchest and most rational men of the Night’s Watch, even the most revered leading Crows like Benjen Stark and Qhorin Halfhand, seemed convinced that there was something more dangerous than wildling raiders looming beyond the Wall. That they refuse to acknowledge it, unless they are behind closed doors with only their peers, is proof enough for Samwell. He wants to vomit, considering.

“We might be lucky yet if that new boy king of ours still believes in the tales his wetnurse told him!” Ser Alliser chuckles mirthlessly.

“Watch your mouth, Thorne!”

The cold snide tone in Bart’s voice startles Samwell. For all that the first steward is a grotesquely disfigured man, carrying battle scars that make his gait slow and dragging, his posture hunched, and his face a frightening grimace at the best of times, his voice, despite its hoarseness from the suffered throat injury, is usually mellow and kind. Now, not so much.

Ser Alliser only gives a shrug and runs his calloused fingers through his thick grey curls. “I’ll be praying to the old gods and the new that Yoren and his men will work their magic in the capital. Not much more I can do than wait for new men who are worth more than …”

Sam can feel his breath hitch and his throat constrict. The Others are all but forgotten – vivid memories of being tortured at Ser Alliser’s hands still haunt his nightmares, the aches and the bruises and the taunting insults, the sadistic sneer and the senseless violence and the utter humiliation, the tears and spit freezing on his face and the idea of hurling himself off the Wall just to get away from it all becoming more and more enticing. That was before Bart had taken him under his wing, given him a second chance to escape a life that didn’t suit him, for reasons that still eluded him. He cannot be impartial when Ser Alliser, that sorry excuse for a teacher, speaks of his methods; he can only try to breathe and to hold the jug of ale steady despite his trembling hands, lest he spill it all over himself and be ridiculed mercilessly once again.

“State your needs, Thorne,” the Lord Commander harshly interrupts his tirade, and for a moment Ser Alliser looks taken aback. He hums and huffs before he speaks up again.

“A dozen, give or take a few.”

“No more than that?” The Lord Commander frowns, “You cannot be serious!”

“Hear me out! A dozen men just to compensate for our recent losses, and they better be men with some experience that can be sent out right away. Two score more, at the very least, to occupy all the vacant posts to run Castle Black with some efficiency and maybe even have sufficient backup.”

“Three score would be preferable, better yet four, just to be sure. I assume that we will have more losses to compensate for before winter comes … and winter is coming.” Reciting his house words Stark nods in agreement, threading his long fingers around his pewter vat of ale.

“But those can be trained in time,” Ser Alliser says and turns to Maester Aemon, “Do send word to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower to ascertain their needs. From what I know they, too, are severely understaffed and their masters-at-arms lack the resources to train recruits on the premises, so I’ll train the lads here and have them deployed as soon as they’re ready.”

“A dozen each, better yet a score,” Stark says, thoughtfully clenching his jaw, “I wouldn’t know about the Shadow Tower but I did meet Cotter Pyke some three moon’s turns ago on a ranging; he was … struggling, to put it mildly.”

“We all are.” Bart clenches his hands together and lays them on the table while he hunches forward. “The order of the stewards could use some more men, too. Skilled men, that is. I’m already using every man unfit for serving at arms for basic duties, that’s not the issue. Any green lad can learn to wield a ladle and mend a tunic and fletch an arrow, but it’s actual craftsmanship that’s lacking.”

Ser Alliser raises an eyebrow, a furry white caterpillar creeping over his leathered frown.

“It’s no more or less important than actually fighting wildlings … or _Others_ … if you don’t mind me saying so. We’re lacking the funds to buy supplies, and we’re lacking the qualifications to make do on our own.” Bart gives a sigh, only slightly exasperated, “Furriers, tanners, saddlers, blacksmiths, armourers, wainwrights, … that’s serious business, nothing you could teach a layman over the course of a fortnight or two.”

“Duly noted,” the Lord Commander says gravely, “Which trade is most needed, Bart? I’ll make sure to let Yoren know.”

“A saddler, and a good one at that,” Bart answers without missing a beat, “Kortt rode out with the Halfhand and didn’t come back. His lads are industrious enough, young Jordi Herbeck especially, but they can’t do much more than repairs without further instruction.”

“I agree,” Stark gives one of his solemn, dour-faced nods, “One thing always leads to the other … we cannot ride out with our tack in tatters lest we lose more men.”

“Consider it done,” the Lord Commander states.

A half-hearted smile curls around Bart’s chapped lips. “Thank you, Lord Commander.”

“Would that it were that easy!” Ser Alliser cries.

“The Queen is of the North, and from what I understand she’s to be the new King’s regent for the time being,” the Lord Commander says, his voice sonorous and steady, and Samwell is sure that he’s making a point of ignoring Ser Alliser’s barbs, “She will see reason. You have Her Grace’s ear, Stark, being her brother and all.”

“Are you suggesting … ?” Benjen Stark starts, hiding his disdain in his tankard. “With all due respect, Lord Commander … we’re short enough on competent men as it is, and we still need to ascertain the threat, which is why I’ll be leading another ranging expedition north, together with Qhorin Halfhand. We need answers, so we’ll trace the steps of the parties that have been lost and Qhorin has arranged to meet with some select wildling leaders, Mance Rayder first and foremost, to learn what they know and maybe convince them to stay where they are. Preparations have already been made, we’re leaving in a sennight at the latest.”

“Parley with the wildlings?!” Ser Alliser cries out, “Is the Halfhand out of his fucking mind?!”

The Lord Commander’s huff is disappointed but not malicious, Samwell thinks, and the warning glance to Ser Alliser is well-deserved.

“Priorities, Stark,” he says, slowly and deliberately, “We’re short on qualified rangers either way, but we have only one man who is brother to the Queen.”

“I’ll write to her of course, I’ll do what I can,” Stark hurries to say, “but I cannot possibly leave my post right now, for all that I would love to get the chance to see my sister again.” He takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his hand to his high brow. “I saw what I saw, Lord Commander, _that’s_ my priority. I’m not a diplomat after all, and I fear that …”

“Go on, Stark,” the Lord Commander urges on when the silence becomes deafening.

“I have my sister’s ear, as she has mine. That’s why I know that the court still holds a certain … prejudice, if you will … against Northmen. They think us uncultured and superstitious, to put it mildly.” Stark lifts his hand and motions for more ale with a flick of his wrist, and Samwell hurries to comply. He takes a deep gulp before he continues, “If it is I who brings these matters before the Queen I fear that we will be met with the very same reaction Ser Alliser has stated earlier: her courtiers will dismiss each and every of our encounters as gruesomely exaggerated northern hearth tales and not take the threat seriously. Even more so because I’m her brother, her _younger_ brother at that … it would weaken her stance and her credibility in court, and ours too.”

The Lord Commander cocks his head aside, obviously pondering the implications. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Bart,” Stark says, turning to the first steward, “send him south in my stead. Let Yoren and his men do their recruiting and have Bart speak to the Queen. He’s both eloquent and impartial, he’ll get our point across alright.”

“I couldn’t possibly …”

Samwell, standing right across the room from him, sees the flicker of dread on his contorted face, but before he can linger on what it might mean, Ser Alliser barges in with a slap on his hunched back that seems more jovial than it could be.

“The Queen would be shocked … _appalled_ even … to be met with that grotesque face of his!”

Bart doesn’t flinch. Samwell is taken aback by his lack of reaction. If he were a braver man in a higher position he’d make sure to tell everyone who might cross him off, decisively so. If he were a braver man he’d find it in him to defend Bart, the one man who had been nothing but kind to him since he’d taken him under his wing back when he’d been but a green recruit at the mercy of one Ser Alliser and his ilk, green with nauseating dread because he couldn’t wield a sword or run a mile or be a brave man … Would that he could, but he’s not. He’s not a braver man, not by a long shot, he’s just Sam who shudders at the prospect of ever meeting a White Walker face to face and all but stumbles into the fire when he hurries to stoke the faintly smouldering and gradually cooling embers.

“The Queen is not a woman absorbed by vanities,” Stark puts in scathingly, and then he pauses. “What I’m meaning to say is: she’s seen worse.”

“Bart does have a way with words,” the Lord Commander says, “furthermore, he’s expendable.”

Sam jerks so violently he topples over and nearly burns his hand on the wrought iron grid above the hearth when he tries to find his balance again. He cannot help but take offence … after all, he takes pride in being a steward and it was all Bart’s doing.

“We cannot afford to part with anyone who can take up arms, not even temporarily. A shuffling cripple isn’t any sort of help up here, but he might do us some good down south.”

When Bart agrees, Sam feels like he’d been stabbed. Not only is he dreading the prospect of being without his mentor and protector for many moons to come, he’s also rather shocked that Bart doesn’t say anything to defend the honour of stewards. The passionate speech about how a man’s worth is not defined by his strength and how even a cripple like Bart and a timid fat boy like Sam can find their place and contribute to society resonates with Samwell since he’d first heard it early on in his training for stewardship.

“You can do without my counsel for a couple of moon’s turns, Lord Commander,” Bart says without any trace of emotion, “that much is sure, but …”

“Even the simplest of recruits can fulfil a steward’s basic duties to satisfaction,” Ser Alliser interrupts, smirking and shaking his head, “counting boots and arrows and turnips isn’t that hard a task after all!”

“You would do well to remember, Ser, that a steward is so much more than a mere maid,” Maester Aemon puts in calmly, and Samwell spontaneously wants to hug him.

“Thing is,” Bart raises his voice again, “unlike all of you I wasn’t born a lord. I’m not the right man to parley with the Queen.”

Bart had never been forthcoming with details about his life before he joined the Night’s Watch; all Samwell recalls is that he used to be a soldier who suffered grievous injuries in Robert’s Rebellion and that he’d been sent to the Wall for stealing some food as he was trying to make his way home in the chaotic aftermath of war. Nevertheless, he’s surprisingly well-read and well-spoken for a commoner, a fact that Samwell had come to admire. _Unlike Ser Alliser he would at least be polite to_ _Her Grace_ _the Queen_ , he thinks to himself. The Lord Commander seems to agree.

“It is of no import, Bart. We all leave our past behind when we take the Black.”

There’s a flicker of emotion on Bart’s scarred face – was it embarrassment, or mayhaps defeat? – and then it’s gone. He straightens his shoulders and readies himself to reply as Maester Aemon clears his throat.

“We all know that this isn’t entirely true. Even more so at court where names are of higher worth than merit.”

Maester Aemon is seated facing away from Samwell, so he can’t see his expression, but he does see the fleeting look of gratitude Bart gives him. Maybe it’s solidarity between an all but crippled man and a blind one but the rapport the two of them seem to have developed over the years never ceases to amaze him.

“Rest assured the Queen is above such prejudice!” Stark puts in, sounding well offended.

“ _Lyanna Stark_ might be, I don’t doubt that,” the Lord Commander says, thoughtfully stroking his coarse white beard, “Don’t get me wrong, Stark, for all that she’s a sensible woman of the North she’s the regent now, surrounded by councillors and courtiers, and she needs to take their sensibilities into account, whether she personally likes it or not.”

Ser Alliser harrumphs in agreement. Unlike Jeor Mormont and Benjen Stark, stalwart Northern lords, he had spent a significant part of his life at court; he would know better.

“Thank you for your consideration, Lord Commander,” Bart says, visibly relieved, “I’m not meaning to be difficult, only …”

The Lord Commander waves his hand dismissively, “It is a matter to consider and I thank you for bringing it up.”

“What do you propose then?” Stark asks.

“Let me sleep on it, you’ll have my decision come morning.” The Lord Commander takes a deep gulp of ale before he turns to his men again. “Now tell me more about your latest findings beyond the Wall. If we’re to inform the Queen about a threat greater than wildlings and be taken seriously, we need all the facts on the table.”

Samwell wills himself not to listen as the conversation once again turns to ghoulish blue eyes on creatures that come crawling from the Lands of Always Winter, lest he vomit into the rapidly decimating jug of ale in his trembling, sweaty hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it hadn't been for Ketch, who made me rewrite this chapter, you wouldn't have enjoyed it ... so please give him a big round of applause! :) Also, happy holidays to all of you who are celebrating!


	6. Willas I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas Tyrell is anxiously awaiting the birth of his first child. The Queen of Thorns is concerned for entirely different reasons.

Willas slumps down with a pain-addled sigh, loosening the straps on his brace for better access to prod at his sore knee. He had been pacing for so long that his mangled leg, curse it to the seventh hell and back, started to swell and throb incessantly, and yet he had found himself unable to stop. He wishes Garlan were here; he had been in his shoes before after all, and unlike his lord father his younger brother always knows what to say while Father’s well-meaning attempts to find soothing words had only managed to make him more nervous. He’d been secretly glad when Ser Reymun Ambrose, the steward of Highgarden, had barged in to call him away on an important matter. That had been hours ago and by now he wishes he had someone to share his worries with. For all that Willas is a patient and pensive man by nature he feels like jumping out of his skin now. He’s too distracted to read, let alone get any work done, and his guardsmen’s attempts to distract him with a card game and some idle chatter have proven futile. All he can do is wait, yet he finds he cannot wait any longer.

At the crack of dawn his young wife had gone into labour. The sun is hanging deep on the horizon now, dipping below the crenellations that surround the westernmost fortifications, painting orange and gold reflexes onto the whitewashed walls of the Tower of the Mander and the castle walls that can be seen from the window here on the lower levels of the Tower of Thorns. Not knowing is what drives Willas to the precipice of insanity; the maester’s realm is way out of earshot in another segment of the widespread palatial keep and it’s been hours since they last bothered to send a flushed maid over as an envoy to let him know that _milady is_ _alright_ _but the babe’s in no hurry to arrive_.

Massaging his knee in lieu of genuflecting, Willas starts to pray. Remembering the words to the prayers meant for the Mother and the Maiden takes some effort – he’s never really felt the need to pray to them before, apart from perfunctory and superficial well-wishes for his female family members, much preferring the Smith and the Crone in his everyday worship – but he quickly finds solace in the repetitive and formulaic wording. When he runs out of verses his prayer becomes more personal, more frantic, more pleading.

 _Have mercy, oh Mother, keep my Moria safe. For all that she’s a strong woman on her own, give her all the strength she needs._ Women die in childbed all the time, the rational and scientifically-minded side of Willas tells him, but he cannot dwell on that right now. _A year ago I didn’t even know her and now I cannot imagine life without her. Also, Oberyn might kill me if the child I put in her belly kills her._ He cannot help but chuckle at this thought, but it’s a gist of humour that freezes him to the bone. _Keep my Moria safe, keep our little one safe. I don’t care if it’s a son or a daughter, only that it’s a healthy child. Ten fingers and ten toes is all I ask, and Moria’s darling impish smile if that’s not too presumptuous to wish for. Would that I could be there for her, there with her …_ a birthing chamber is no place for a man save a maester his lady mother had informed him with no room for argument, yet he remembers that Oberyn Martell – his good-father, for what it’s worth – had told him that he’d been there for the birth of his three youngest daughters, and both the gory details and the wistful smile had scared him out of his wits. He hadn’t known yet that Moria was with child back then, and now it scares him even more. _Keep my family safe. Grant me the mercy of having a family of my own. Oh Gods, I’m to have a family. Oh Gods, I’m to be a father! Oh Gods, Moria, I do love you dearly … and I’ll love our little one even more, if that’s even possible._

The door swings open, tearing Willas from his reverie. A rustle of starchy brocade gowns and the sour aroma of old age mingling with heady rose perfume fills the room; Willas winces in pain as he rises to greet his lady grandmother who is the only one not to grant him any compassion, let alone leniency, due to his disability. She taps her cane on the floor by ways of greeting and impatiently waits for her guardsmen to draw up a chair.

He knows better than to ask her if there’s any news from the birthing chamber. Olenna Redwyne, the dowager Lady Tyrell, is the only female member of the household who is not at Moria’s side, supporting her as she gives life to the youngest member of the Tyrell clan who might or might not be the heir presumptive. She’s making a point of course, it’s yet another petty act of defiance and disdain that should have been way below her.

 _Granny would have died of_ _sheer_ _boredom long ago had all her grandchildren proven to be obedient and malleable enough to subject to her perfidious scheming_ , Willas thinks to himself, albeit with a faint hint of bitterness.

His unfortunate accident was the first thorn in her side, and she had taken it quite personally that her dashing grandson had been reduced to a pitiful cripple in nary a blink of the eye, and together with the rest of the family, save Willas himself, she’d held a grudge ever since.

Garlan’s decision to court Leonette Fossoway was the first open act of defiance, albeit an unintentional one. When Willas, despite still being the heir, had no longer been a desirable bachelor due to his injury they had started looking for a suitable match among the daughters of the bannermen of the Reach for Garlan post-haste, presenting him with a handful of choices. The Florent girl was the preferred option, the candidate Granny endorsed because she didn’t trust a marriage to a mere Hightower cousin to settle the age-old issue of disputed Brightwater Keep in favour of House Tyrell once and for all. Garlan didn’t choose the Florent girl, though, nor any other approved potential match, but the Fossoway girl’s handmaiden, a second cousin from a lesser branch of the family. Had Granny known what was yet to come she might not have called it a scandal quite yet.

Loras was next. He had been away for nigh on six years, squiring at Storm’s End, and the tourney held on the occasion of Lord Tyrell’s fiftieth nameday had been his first visit home in as many years. He’d promptly slipped up, rather fuelled on wine as he was sitting at the head table with the most important bannermen and esteemed guests one night of feasting, calling his lord by his given name, and of course one Lord Renly Baratheon, curse him, had made it worse by remarking that he’d _‘heard far worse from him’_ with an affectionate wink to the young man who was supposed to be a hostage to the crown and should have been no more than his servant. By the time Loras had been knighted the scandal had subdued enough to shove every available heiress of the Reach and beyond into his face. When Brynden Tully fell in the Greyjoy Rebellions, Loras practically jumped at the opportunity to take his place in the Kingsguard, and Granny couldn’t help but grudgingly give her approval and concile herself with the fact that further strengthening of ties with their bannermen would fall to Garlan and Leonette’s children in time.

Margaery was the first to outwit the old lady when she came up with the marriage plot after a young man of her own choosing had been rejected for superficial reasons that eluded Willas. If she couldn’t have whom she wanted she could at least make sure that the same would never happen to her beloved brother, and if the family wanted to improve their standing at court what better way than to marry the king’s brother, the one he actually tolerated? It was rather selfless and admirable, Willas thought, but then again that was the essence of who Margaery was after all.

And now, in an attempt to outwit them all, Willas provided a scandal of his own when he’d brought his young Dornish wife home half a year ago and Granny had greeted them with the words _‘You have higher standards in your choice of bitches and broodmares than in your choice of wives. If it had to be a Dornish hussy it could at least have been one with a pedigree’_. Willas had known what to expect, and he’d tried his best to prepare Moria for what was to come, but he had still stood perplexed at the level of crassness and disdain that was surprising even for Granny and her barbed tongue.

Despite everything there is a hint of compassion in the old lady’s wizened features as she sits across from her grandson, still clutching the pommel of her cane adorned with tiny silver ranks and roses. Willas had never even noticed, not before he’d brought Moria home and she’d remarked _‘_ _Is there anything here that doesn’t have_ _vines and_ _roses?’_ with that mischievously bubbling laugh of hers, and now he can’t not notice.

“Your fretting won’t change anything, child,” is the first thing she says to him when she’s done ordering her guards around, “It’s not like she’s the first wench in history to come down. It goes well or it doesn’t, either way there’s more important matters to consider.”

“Why thank you, Granny, that’s plenty reassuring.”

For the life of him Willas cannot keep the sarcasm out of his voice, and if the old lady is offended she doesn’t let it show. She probably isn’t, though, she strongly believes in the principle that anyone who dishes out must be able to take it in turn. She cocks her head aside, pursing her lips in a tutting fashion.

“Has your idiot father not told you?” she inquires, her twinkling brown eyes curiously darting around the room, “Where _is_ he, anyway?”

Willas startles, nearly jumping out of his seat.  “ Told me  _what_ ?”

“Oh, Loras has written …” she starts conversationally, threading her gaunt and spotted fingers together, and for but a moment Willas wants to throttle her. Her rambling digressions and her outright refusal to get to the point until she was good and ready, cleverly concealed as being scatterbrained due to her old age while nothing could be further from the truth, frustrate him on the best of days, and now that he’s teetering on the brink he cannot muster the patience to deal with intrigue and mystery. Thankfully, she shows some mercy and goes on before he has to prod her for answers. “A raven arrived this morning. Seems like the king has taken a fall and he’s in a bad enough state to have your brother and sister and that fancy royal husband of theirs rather worried.”

“ _What?!_ ”

For a moment Willas wants to wave it off, unable to focus on anything but his wife’s condition and the prospect of becoming a father sooner rather than later. But then realisation dawns upon him and he takes a moment to consider the implications.

“What?!” he repeats, dumbfounded.

“Shut your mouth, boy, you’re not a fish,” Granny scolds, tapping her cane on the parquet flooring rather vigorously, “What is it that you didn’t understand?”

“The king …” he stammers, because he really doesn’t want to know what Granny has to say about that unorthodox arrangement between Margaery and Loras and one Renly Baratheon, the man he’d readily accepted as a good-brother long before he’d actually become his good-brother.

“Yes, the king. The fat man with the crown. He’s taken a fall on one of those silly hunting expeditions he’s apparently so fond of, and …”

Her wizened face doesn’t give away any trace of emotion, let alone information, but Willas’ eyes go wide in shock. All of a sudden everything comes tumbling in his mind.

“What know we about His Grace’s condition?” he inquires, struggling to get his wits together again.

“Mayhaps he’s sprained his wrist and is whining about it, because that’s what men are wont to do, even more so if they happen to be of high standing. Mayhaps he’s dead already.” Granny shrugs, her nonchalant tone frightfully close to insubordination. “Since when do you care?”

 _Oh Granny, if only you knew …_ Willas pales at the thought, willing himself not to jump to conclusions prematurely, steeling himself for what is to come if worst came to worst.

“Hugh,” he calls out, and his sworn sword stumbles to his feet, abandoning the card game the three guards had been silently playing in the far corner of the room, “Ser Hugh, call for my lord father at once!”

The young man who used to be his squire gives him a perplexed stare, but he knows better than to ask questions, despite being friendly rather than strictly master and servant. “Certainly, milord!”

Willas wants to pray, to all the Seven and anyone else who might hear him, but his grandmother’s intense stare makes it all but impossible. He gives a deep sigh, straightens out the leg of his trousers and readjusts his brace instead.

“I’ve asked you a question, Willas,” Granny’s voice cuts in, making him flinch.

“I’m worried is all,” he says carefully, unwilling to give anything away, “King Robert’s heir is a little boy who has celebrated his seventh nameday nary a moon’s turn ago. If anything were to happen to the king, the Seven bless him, the realm’s stability is at stake and …”

“Do keep in mind that I’m ancient, child, I might die before you come to the point.”

Granny purses her lips with a clucking sound, he couldn’t possibly say whether it’s meant thoughtfully or disdainfully. He has half a mind of telling her everything, of sharing the secret that’s been weighing on his conscience for too long, of making her an ally before she could even think otherwise, but then again he knows better than that. He couldn’t. He can’t. It’s his burden to bear, a burden he can share with no one but his wife and select members of her family, and it wears heavier than ever before. But then again …

The door bursts open just as he opens his mouth to speak. Willas whips his head around and for a moment he’s disappointed that it’s not Ser Hugh and his lord father standing in the doorway. And then he realises … it’s not his father, it’s his good-sister, and that could only mean one thing.

“Will!” Nymeria Sand cries out, beaming and panting in a flurry of red and orange silks and unruly wisps of shiny black hair flying about her strikingly elegant face.

“That would be _Lord Willas_ to you, girl! Have you no manners?” Granny chides, and then her looks turn sour, “Of course you haven’t, you …”

“The Lady Moria has been delivered of a healthy girl child,” Nym cuts in, ignoring Lady Olenna’s sharp tongue with a superior aura that screams of noble blood and a court education despite her baseborn status, dismissing the dowager lady of the keep as if she were a mere nuisance (and that she is, most of the time, if Willas were entirely honest), and then she breaks out into an uninhibited grin again, “You have a daughter, Will, the most beautiful little girl!”

Willas jumps to his feet, not even noticing the excruciating pain shooting through his knee and his whole leg.

“The largest premature babe the Reach has ever seen, I assume? Just short of eight pounds at just short of eight months or something along these lines?” Granny puts in, but nobody cares for her scathing remarks, not now.

“And my wife?” Willas asks, his voice breaking.

“She’s fine, Will, exhausted but fine, don’t you worry. They’re eager to see you now.” The feisty Dornishwoman rushes over to embrace him, holds him tight when he collapses into her arms. “Fetch the pushchair!” she all but bellows to the guards.

On any other day Ser Lyon and his squire Herri would be reluctant to follow the Dornish bastard’s orders. On any other day Willas himself would be reluctant to give in to his disability and actually use the thrice-damned chair on wheels. But today wasn’t any other day. Today was the day to race the never-ending corridors of Highgarden, dignity and propriety be damned, to meet …

“Moria!” Willas cries out as soon as Ser Lyon wheels him through the doors of the maester’s office, and a string of endearments tumbles from his lips before he pulls himself up as tall as he can and turns to the cluster of bystanders. “Give us the room, will you?” he demands, drawing on an authority that contrasts his customary diplomatic and soft-spoken manner, and all of them – even Maester Lomys and his lady mother with tears of joy in her eyes – jump to obey ere they had a chance to think about it.

Despite her sunkissed Dornish complexion, Moria Tyrell is pale as the moon that has just risen in the sky over Highgarden and drying sweat sticks to her forehead making her ink-black hair curlier than it usually is. The maids had changed the soiled bedsheets but they hadn’t got around to cleaning up their lady and making her presentable quite yet. Willas found he didn’t care, he didn’t care one bit.

“Will,” she says softly, her Dornish tongue curling around the consonants in his name in that peculiarly endearing way that makes his heart flutter every time, “Willas, we have a daughter.”

He bobs his head, utterly stupefied, and then he crawls into the bed with her, still at a loss for words. He would love to take a good look at them, at them both, at his wife and their daughter curled in nursing at her bosom, but there’s tears in his eyes clouding his vision, so all he can do is gather them both in his arms while nonsensical words of love and devotion come tumbling from his lips as he kisses her brow over and over and over again.

When he finally achieves coherence again he shifts and turns to face her. “Are you alright?” is all he manages to ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, kissing him soundly, “Sore and aching enough to never let you bed me again, but …”

“You’ve never been this happy?” Willas supplies, choking up again himself.

“Yes.”

“Me either.”

The babe in her arms is precious. Even more than that, she’s perfect. Ten fingers and ten toes, a smattering of curly dark hair on her head, a rosy complexion … everything he’d dared ask for, and more. So much more. He wants to hold her, to cradle her against his chest and keep her safe forever, but Moria declines as the babe is still nursing and shouldn’t be disturbed. He touches her nevertheless, fascinated at how soft and dainty she is. Hailing from a huge family he has held many a newborn – the first he consciously remembers was Loras when he was a boy of six, then Margaery when he was ten, and more recently his nephews by Garlan, first Jannos and sweet little Osmundtwo years later – but nothing has ever touched him quite like this.

“Did we really make this?” Willas whispers, awestruck, as his daughter’s tiny hand clutches around his index finger for the first time, taking hold of not his finger but his whole heart. “My little princess,” he coos fondly, “that’s what you are, our beautiful little princess.”

“Lovisa,” Moria says quietly, shifting the babe in her arms into a more comfortable position as she nurses, “Lovisa Tyrell.”

It’s the name they had agreed upon, a name fit to forge their houses together again. There had been many a Lovisa Tyrell throughout history, dating back to the age of the Gardener Kings and beyond, and there had been at least one Lovis Martell, a former knight of the Reach who had become the prince consort to one Princess Elia Nymeros Martell who had ruled Dorne a century and a half ago, making him Moria’s great-great-grandfather. Prowling the family chronicles they had fallen in love with the name, chuckling at the sheer irony of it all.

“That’s not her name and you know it,” Willas mumbles into her shoulder, softly enough to be overheard.

“It will be for as long as it needs to be,” Moria whispers into his hair, because of course she’d overheard, “just as mine own name is Moria Sand.”

“Moria _Tyrell_ ,” Willas corrects, pulling himself up again, his gaze and his touch never leaving his wife and his daughter. He doesn’t want to continue on his errant train of thought, he doesn’t want to destroy this illusion of joy and love and family. Attraction had become affection within a fortnight of their first meeting, and then it had become so much more.

His wife knows him better, though, even when she’s exhausted to the bone from giving birth he cannot fool her. “What is it, Will? Is aught amiss?”

Willas gives a sigh and considers dismissing her concern with a few kind words and kisses, if only to give her a peaceful night’s sleep after this ordeal and to give them a couple more precious hours of blissfully innocent time adjusting to parenthood and getting to know their daughter, but he finds that he can’t. They had sworn always to be truthful to one another after all, come what may.

His hand tangles into her fringe, stroking the loose hairs back over her head; a caress that’s become so natural to him over the course of the last year. He takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to her temple while he’s scrambling for words, and then the babe opens her eyes with a lazy blink and …

“They’re purple,” he chokes, “Her eyes are purple.”

“I know,” Moria says, and there’s pain and insecurity in her voice and it doesn’t suit her, “We can explain it away. Gods, I hope that we can! Daynes and Martells have been known to intermarry since before Nymeria came to Westeros after all. And if that’s not enough, we can always claim that my alleged mother’s mother was of Valyrian descent … a Velaryon, maybe?”

“We might not need to,” Willas says quietly, leaning his forehead against his wife’s with a deep sigh, “Robert Baratheon might be dead by now for all I know. Father got a raven from Loras and we were waiting for confirmation while you were in labour.”

“ _Fuck.”_

Moria’s head falls back into the soft plush cushions as the haze of bliss and purely motherly instincts breaks, the babe gives a squeal of indignation at the abrupt movement.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

Moria clutches his hand, draws it up to her chapped lips to kiss his palm in a motion that’s more desperation than devotion.

“This changes everything,” she says, softly and deliberately, “Are you still with me?”

There is so much fear in her dark eyes, and while he can understand it on a rational level it still breaks his heart. They had talked it through at length when they were still in Dorne, when Willas had learned the whole truth about his wife on the eve of their wedding.

“By your side in the best of times and in the worst of times,” he repeats their wedding vows, squeezing her hand and kissing her cheek before he leans down to nuzzle their daughter’s tiny head, “Now more than ever.”

Wrinkles appear in the corners of her eyes when she presses them firmly shut, making her seem way older than the one-and-twenty namedays she has seen, but Willas finds he doesn’t care much. He’s worried about more important things than his young base-born wife’s beauty, he’s worried about her safety and her identity and everything that might happen.

“Does Oberyn know?” she asks, as if on instinct.

Willas gives a sigh. “Last he wrote he was talking about travelling to Norvos on an errand for your Uncle Doran …”

“I remember.” She nods, and then she flinches. “I’d rather not remember the bit about the prospect of meeting his old friend somewhere on the way, the one who is … now how did he put it? … _‘a gorgeous creature with starlight in his eyes’_?”

They share a quick, shuddering laugh that seems to soothe the squirming babe, and then Willas becomes serious again.

“Unless you’ve corresponded in private – which I wouldn’t begrudge you, by all means, he’s your father after all – we’ve not heard from him since.”

“I haven’t. But I assume that the Queen …” Her sigh is accompanied by a shake of her pretty head and Willas can all but see the cogs in her head turning. “That last letter arrived a fortnight ago. If he’s off to Norvos he’ll be shipping into Pentos rather than Tyrosh or Myr. Lyanna will know, especially if that _old friend_ of his is who I think he is. She’ll know how to contact him, and he’ll return at his earliest convenience. This is too important …”

“I’m glad,” Willas says, burying his fearful half-smile in her hair, “We should still try and send word to Pentos. There’s nine of you and you’re the first to give him a granddaughter, he’ll be mortally offended if he doesn’t hear it from us first.”

“Yes, _mortally_.” Again, she falls back and laughs, and he cannot help but chime in with her before she becomes serious again. “We need to go to the capital first thing, Will, you do understand that?”

“Granny will have apoplexy, and so will Mama.”

“They will recover, just as they did when you brought some Dornish hussy home and introduced her as your wife.”

“They might not recover when they learn who that Dornish hussy actually is.” Willas gives a deep sigh. “Do you want me to talk to Father?”

Moria shakes her head. “Not yet. Eventually … first I need to know what we’re up against. I need to know what Lyanna’s planning.”

“It just occurred to me that I never asked,” Willas questioningly raises his eyebrow, “what _is_ she planning?”

“I wouldn’t know any details. Oberyn, maybe, but not me.” Moria shifts uncomfortably. “Would you mind holding her? I need to stretch my legs some.”

Willas’ eyes go wide and every thought of the queen is forgotten as his wife hands over their daughter to him. He stiffens and holds his breath, fearing that he might wake her or break her, but he needn’t have worried, she settles into the crook of his arm as if she belonged there, smacking her lips as she drifts off to sleep again, and the only thing that breaks is Willas’ heart. He stares at her, awestruck, running his index finger over her silky wisp of hair before he bows down to kiss her forehead, silently swearing to love and protect her forever.

“Are you even listening, Will? … _Willas?!_ ”

His wife’s voice tears him from his reverie; she’s pacing the room with her hands pressed to the small of her back to ease her obvious discomfort. He can only give a sheepish smile, and she rolls her eyes in annoyance before she repeats what she’d been saying.

“You’re in no condition to ride!”

The first to protest his outcry is his daughter, for his voice had been too loud.

“Shhh,” Moria mumbles to the babe before she goes on, “No Dornishwoman has ever let childbirth be a hindrance. Has Oberyn told you about Ellaria riding from Hellholt to Sunspear, all the way through the desert, all by herself and with a babe that had seen no more than three moon’s turns on her back?” When Willas gasps in surprise she flashes him a lopsided grin. “Of course he hasn’t. It ended with her smacking him well over the head after all …”

“Ouch,” Willas says meekly.

“He deserved it, and darling Obella was born less than a year later, so …” Moria shakes her head in amusement before she becomes serious again, “We Dornishwomen are made of sterner stuff is what I’m meaning to say. This recent development, if it’s even true, it will set things in motion sooner, and probably differently, than anyone could have foreseen. I’m riding for the capital as soon as the maester declares me fit, and like it or not I’ll be taking the little one I cannot leave her, not with everything so uncertain.”

Willas clutches the babe to his chest as he feels his face falling.

“Moria …”

He’d always known that she’s a strong and wilful woman, a fighter descended from a long line of warrior princesses since Nymeria herself, raised as a Sand Snake among Sand Snakes. He’d always known that the day would come when he would have to make a choice when in truth he’d made his choice long ago, even before he’d wrapped his green-and-gold cloak around her slim shoulders. But he never would have thought that she would question his loyalty, not now they were more than a house but a family of their own. He holds the babe tight and presses another kiss to her fluffy little head before he looks up.

She’s all but trembling, because a Sand Snake would never tremble when faced with adversity, and were she wearing more than a nightgown her hand would be on the dagger she always carries concealed in her belt by now. It breaks his heart to see her like this, to see the flicker of doubt in her sharp eyes.

“Rhae,” he says, and as he awkwardly clears his throat he senses that the moment to back out, to claim that he’d only called her his _ray of Dornish sun_ as per usual, came and went, so he goes on with determination, “Rhaenys, my love … we’re in this together. I’m going with you, with you and our little princess. If you have to go slow or even take a wheelhouse because of your condition you can always blame it on my condition.”

She sits on the end of the bed with a thump, laughing awkwardly. “Truly?”

“Truly,” he repeats, taking her hand and squeezing it tight, “you’re my wife, Rhaenys. I won’t bow, won’t bend, won’t break, for as long as we’re together.”

“Growing strong from fire and blood?” Rhaenys paraphrases with tears in her eyes.

“On one condition,” he says with a smile and a caring kiss to her shoulder, “we get a good night’s sleep first.”

“Do you want me to call for a nursemaid to take the little one off our hands?”

“Don’t.” Willas shakes his head with conviction. “This is us now. You and me and Vis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's start the new year with a new chapter. :) I'm looking forward to hearing from you in the comments! 
> 
> Here's another family tree, accounting for the slight changes (ages mainly) I had to make to make this story work:
> 
> **House Tyrell**
> 
> Olenna Redwyne, the dowager Lady Tyrell  
> Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach  
> Alerie Hightower, the Lady Tyrell, his wife  
> Willas Tyrell (27), heir to Highgarden  
> Moria Tyrell (21), his wife – formerly known as Moria Sand, one of Oberyn Martell’s bastard daughters, actually Rhaenys Targaryen in disguise  
> Lovisa Tyrell, their newborn daughter   
> Garlan Tyrell (25)   
> Leonette Fossoway Tyrell (21), his wife  
> Jannos (4) and Ormond (2) Tyrell, their sons  
> Loras Tyrell (21), the Knight of Flowers, sworn brother of the Kingsguard  
> Margaery Tyrell Baratheon (17)  
> Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, Lord of Storm’s End (25) – Margaery’s husband and Loras’ lover
> 
> Also, I'm casting Hugh Dancy as Willas and Natalie Martínez as Rhaenys for the imaginary TV adaptation of this story ;)


	7. Lyanna II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna takes charge and has to deal with matters of state, and with the likes of Jon Arryn and her beloved good-brother Renly Baratheon, while she anticipates changes.

Rubbing in annoyance at the inkstain on her index finger the Queen sets her quill aside before she reaches for the tiny, ivory-adorned whittling knife, shaving a ribbon of sealing wax off the block. She’s staring into the flame, absentmindedly watching the wax melt down before she pours it onto the scroll of parchment, sealing yet another missive.

Her personal sigil has a direwolf, of course, only it’s a direwolf rampant facing the rearing stag that depicts her late husband’s house. Robert Baratheon had laughed when she first showed him the design she’d come up with when they were newlyweds. _‘As if they were about to meet in an embrace at long last,_ _the stag and his_ _she-_ _wolf,_ _’_ is what he’d said, giving his approval with a salacious wink and a heartily smacked kiss to her lips. Back then she’d reluctantly nodded her agreement; only now that he’s deceased she allows herself to dwell on the symbolism she was originally aiming for so many years ago when she was still a broken young woman … the direwolf rising to attack its prey. She ought to feel triumphant, being so close – _so close!_ – to her ultimate goal, so why doesn’t she?

She gives a deep sigh, running her hands over the shiny mahogany surface of the desk that used to be her husband’s before she turns to the next letter; she finds herself pleasantly surprised that it’s not another letter of condolence but one that had been written before Robert’s untimely death. She had been working through a massive stack of correspondence for the better part of the day, both her own and her late husband’s, and only now she’s unearthing letters that had lain unattended on the king’s desk since before he’d decided to go hunting. She checks the sigil and the signature; it’s from Ser Ronnet Connington, so it’s actually an affair for Renly, being the Lord of Storm’s End and thus the Knight of Griffin’s Roost’s liege lord, to deal with despite it being addressed to the king, but she doesn’t care to relay it. Renly would be offended to learn that the Conningtons had chosen to go over his head, she fears. It’s a minor issue after all and she finds herself secretly relieved that she can do more than find words of gratitude for offered condolences. _Furthermore_ _, for all that House Connington has fallen from grace_ _after the Rebellion_ _,_ _demoted_ _from_ _lordship and stripped of lands and wealth,_ _for all that Red Ronnet might not even be aware of his cousin’s loyalties –_ _or that he’_ _s even alive, for that matter_ _–, the time will come when I need to rely on them_ , she thinks to herself, _concerning myself with_ _recompensation for_ _their_ _merchant_ _fleet_ _when they’re under constant attacks from Myrish pirates,_ _rendering commerce with Tyrosh and Myr all but impossible,_ _is the_ _very_ _least I can do._

“Ser Barristan,” she turns to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who has been at her side all day, busying himself with his own affairs at a smaller desk on the far side of the room instead of ostentatiously watching the door as any other guard would have done, “Would you mind pointing me to where His Grace keeps his books?” When the old knight raises an eyebrow towards the long row of low bookshelves encompassing more than half of the wall she adds sheepishly, “The financial records I mean, not _books_ in general.”

“That would be Lord Tyrion’s responsibility, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan says with only the slightest trace of condescension in his voice.

“Of course.”

Tyrion Lannister was the acting Master of Coin, serving in his lord father’s stead, and he had been prominently absent since the king’s accident. _You’re not meaning to tell me that the king didn’t even …_ She bites her tongue, though. _Of course he wouldn’t. He hated counting coppers_ _more than anything_ _._ She all but throws Connington’s letter onto a pile labelled _Redwyne_ , for the Master of Ships’ further discretion, making a mental note to make sure that he go above and beyond in his efforts to aid House Connington before she goes on to the next letter, one that had been addressed to her. Cracking open the purple star-and-sword seal she smiles when she recognises Aloys Dayne’s tiny and impossibly slanted handwriting.

When she raises her head again, Jon Arryn is looming over the desk regarding her with a disquisitive stare. She had been so immersed into the work that has to be done that she didn’t even notice him making an entrance until he cleared his throat.

“Your Grace,” he says, and his whole demeanour reminds her of her late lord father now more than ever, “You really needn’t concern yourself with this …”

Is he purposefully checking in on her, she wonders, or was it just happenstance that brought him here while he was going on with his own day’s work? _Here_ being the antechambers between the Throne Room and the Small Council Chamber where the sovereign and all the members of council had their assigned workplaces, a measure introduced by King Daeron II to reduce the time and resources wasted by countless couriers scurrying between the King’s Apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast, the Tower of the Hand, the White Sword Tower, and the other masters’ offices strewn throughout the Red Keep. Not that Robert had ever made much use of them, of course.

“Oh but I do, Lord Hand,” Lyanna states matter-of-factly, deliberately turning back to the letter she’s been reading in an attempt to mask her feelings, fighting the urge to bite back as he tries to intimidate her and set her teeth on edge, “I’m the regent for the time being, my place is here now.”

Jon Arryn’s droopily swimming blue eyes zero in on her, scrutinising her with a puzzled and rather wary stare, and she’s certain that he disagrees with her. She flashes him another bright smile that’s meant to be reassuring and speaks up again before he can put in a word of protest.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Lord Hand, I couldn’t help but notice that these letters here mainly deal with minor grievances and other rather petty issues. Am I right in assuming that more pressing matters have already been taken care of by you and your staff or is the realm really in the fortunate position that vagabonds along the Gold Road in a region that’s disputed between the Reach, the Westerlands and the Riverlands are our most pressing issue?”

“Rest assured, Your Grace, we have everything under control,” the Hand says hastily, seeming nervous all of a sudden, “There’s nothing for you to worry about. You might want to oversee the funeral preparations instead, if you feel like busying yourself with something. I remember when Lady Jeyne and Lady Rowena passed away, the Seven rest their souls …” It takes Lyanna a moment longer than it should have to figure out that he’s referring to Lady Catelyn’s unfortunate predecessors, and when she pays attention again he’s already lecturing her with a stern fatherly voice. “There is liturgy to be selected and seating arrangements to be reviewed and of course decorations for the sept ...”

 _Tasks fit for a proper little lady is what he’s meaning to say_ , Lyanna thinks grudgingly. “The funeral preparations are entirely in Lady Allyria’s capable hands, who is liaising with the High Septon himself, and it just so happens that I have not yet received word from her that my presence were required in the sept. Also, the princesses and their septa have volunteered to choose appropriate songs and prayers for the ceremony. I have the utmost confidence in my ladies’ abilities, Lord Hand, and I find myself rather grateful that their commitment leaves me free to focus on more important tasks.”

When Lyanna notices the deepening frown on Jon Arryn’s creased face, she pulls her shoulders back and gives the sweetest of smiles. She’d been demurely lowering her gaze and minding her own business for too long now. _How ironic,_ she thinks not for the first time that Robert of all people – the very same Robert who had no interest whatsoever in the more menial tasks of actual ruling, perpetually and pathetically eager to shun himself of responsibilities and cast them on Jon Arryn or Renly or whoever else happened to be there instead – had always declined her offers to become more involved. _‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, my sweet_ _girl_ _,’_ he’d told her with a patronising pinch to her cheeks, insisting even when she explains that she would enjoy it. In the end, she had given up on trying, fully concentrating on her responsibilities in running the household instead, but she’d always made a point of staying perceptive and informed on matters of the realm, relying on Renly’s acerbic observations and Varys’ sly tittering as a font of information while keeping her mouth shut.

“I shall be taking a more active role in the running of the kingdom from now on,” she informs Lord Arryn matter-of-factly, not caring for his obvious disdain.

“That’s kind of you to offer, Your Grace, but you really needn’t bother yourself with such dreary matters,” Lord Arryn protests immediately, and the condescension in his voice is rather close to Robert’s, “I’m sure you’re aware that the Small Council consists of highly capable men who will gladly run the realm until your son comes of age.”

Lyanna gives a sigh, pressing her lips into one thin line while she pretends to consider and tries not to bristle at the thought that the son in question would not be sweet little Tommen. Once more she finds herself rather annoyed by the assumption that nothing would change at court, that one Jon Arryn would continue being king in all but name, only for Tommen instead of Robert now, and that Lyanna the Queen Regent would be as marginal as Lyanna the Queen Consort. But then again, this sense of security and stability everyone is obviously feeling is only working in her favour.

“And have I not over the course of these past years heard many a complaint about His Grace’s rather dispassionate attitude?” She schools her face to the sweetest and most innocent smiles. “Though admittedly not all of the lords councillors were as blunt as my dear good-brother.”

Ser Barristan, who had been silently working at his desk next to the door, gives an amused huff. “Her Grace does have a point there, Arryn, you must admit.”

“I wouldn’t want to interfere, nor would I ever reject your counsel,” she continues – a small lie, but a necessary one –, “I merely wish to help, Lord Hand, to do my duty to the realm.”

Lord Arryn doesn’t seem quite convinced, the deep lines on his face still too scrunched for comfort, but he does attempt to hide his doubt and relent for the time being. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

She cannot afford to alienate Jon Arryn, that much is sure. Sooner rather than later she will need his support, and being close friends with his lady wife might not be enough to see that part of the plan through. But then again, House Arryn had been the first to openly oppose House Targaryen back in the day – rallying support, inciting a rebellion, declaring war – and she wouldn’t forget that, not now. She gives a deep sigh as she ponders the implications. It is a matter to be dealt with at a later date, so she turns back to more immediate matters at hand.

“Lest I forget, Lord Hand – Stannis has written to let me know that, winds permitting, the party from Dragonstone, including your son, should arrive in three days’ time.”

Lyanna hopes that the news would please the old man who has the tendency to turn a bit sentimental when it comes to his family, not that he would ever admit it of course. Young Robert Arryn, a sweet but awkward boy of nine, had been sent to foster with the Baratheons of Dragonstone a little less than a year ago, in the hopes that the fresh sea air on the island might do his ever-frail health some good. The sagging flesh on his throat reverberates in appreciation when he nods, suppressing a smile, and for once Lyanna truly feels for him. She knows what missing a son is like more than anyone … she _knows_ , and even if the pain has numbed over the course of a decade and a half it’s always there, looming somewhere in the back of her mind waiting for the moment to attack, and it’s something she wouldn’t wish on the worst of her enemies. Fostering highborn children away from home was the done thing in the South, she knows, yet she doesn’t quite understand how people can even bear it if it’s not absolutely necessary. She shakes her head, shaking her gloomy thoughts away at the same time.

“Furthermore, I’ve called the Lady Arryn back from Riverrun. I’m sure that she will appreciate the chance to reunite with sweet Robin.”

Lord Arryn furrows his brow again. “My lady wife is tending to her ailing father. Surely that’s more important than indulging in …”

“Had Lord Edmure not seen fit to leave Riverrun himself, stating in his letter that Lord Tully, while weakened from malady and old age, is far from moribund I never would have asked,” Lyanna explains diplomatically despite having interrupted, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Lady Catelyn so the choice is ultimately hers of course. Nevertheless, her presence at court would be highly welcome considering that we’ll be all but under siege soon enough when the guests start arriving for the funeral and the coronation …”

“… and the thrice-damned tourney!” a voice cuts in, burgeoning into the room with no sense of discretion at all, unceremoniously throwing a ledger onto his desk while muttering a stream of curses.

Lyanna turns her head to acknowledge her good-brother before turning back to Jon Arryn. Her scrutinising gaze notices his disdainful glance towards Renly but also his appreciative nod, referring to her arguments that appealed to his sense of duty.

“You’re right of course, Your Grace,” he agrees, as she’d known he would, “Lady Catelyn is vital in helping run the royal household, if you don’t mind me saying so, her presence would be an asset.”

“I’m glad we agree on that matter at least, Lord Hand,” Lyanna says with a smile before she turns to Renly who is still fuming, “Whatever’s the matter?”

“I might throttle Janos fucking Slynt before all of this is over,” is all he says, not volunteering any further information. Lyanna can only assume that it has something to do with the heightened security measures that needed to be taken when the city is filled with bloodthirsty spectators and participants.

“Let’s not let the Master of Laws hear this, shall we Lord Renly?” Ser Barristan puts in with this dry wit of his that never fails to make the Queen laugh. Renly’s infuriated growl makes her laugh even more though. The old knight gives a soft chuckle of his own before he rises, gathering his belongings. “I’m going up to the rookery, seeing that you’re perfectly safe with Lord Renly and the guardsmen at the door,” he states, holding up three small scrolls in his left hand, “anything you want me to take, Your Grace?”

Lyanna rolls her eyes as she points to the heap of letters on the desk. “I do hope you have a bag, Ser Barristan.”

When the White Knight leaves, engaging Lord Arryn in conversation and taking with him – a small but deliberate gesture Lyanna is rather grateful for – she sits back with a sigh while Renly is still pacing, full of agitation and pent-up energy, making her inherently uncomfortable.

“Will you sit down already,” she snaps at him as if he were but a fidgeting child again, “Tell me what it is or don’t, it’s up to you, but quit hovering.”

Renly runs his hand along the wall’s panelling, opening a cache with a targeted slam of his fist. He procures a carafe of wine from the secret stash, pouring two large glasses before he finally sits.

“I’ve never known you to object to a tourney,” she says, crossing her legs and masking her confusion with a wry smile.

“Oh, I love tourneys alright!” Renly cries out dramatically, “I love the thrill of it all, the extravagance, the music and the colours and the spectacle, the smell of oiled leather and burnt almonds in the air, the people cheering by day and dancing by night, the excitement of the fighting and the betting …”

“You love watching a certain handsome and valiant knight who carries your favour send Jaime Lannister and your despicable Redwyne cousins well tumbling to the dirt,” Lyanna puts in with a smirk, tearing Renly from his reverie.

He chuckles. “Yes, that too. _Especially_ that, to be honest.”

“Then tell me, my dear: what in all the seven hells is your problem?”

“I love being part of it all.” A pout that’s entirely unsuited on a lord of five-and-twenty namedays clouds Renly’s exuberantly twinkling eyes. “I hate being the one to _organise_ it all. Have you any idea how much work that is? And in the end everybody will hate me anyway because they would’ve preferred a band of singing dwarves over a troupe of jugglers and they think the winner’s purse for the archery competition too small and someone will undoubtedly accuse me of rigging the draw of opponents and it will go down as the worst tourney in history.”

Lyanna gives an incredulous snort. “Renly,” she says sternly, “you’re not the only one here who has a lot to do and is just a little out of their depth, so stop whining and get to work. You’ve participated in a hundred tourneys and then some, you know what to do. Everything will turn out just fine.”

“But …”

“I can make that a royal order if need be,” she insists. Sometimes it seems like he’s still the petulant child she remembers from her early days in the capital, starved for more than attention, that she has to step up and be his mother and his big sister in one person while she has so many other things troubling her, things that are way more important than Renly Baratheon’s fragile ego in the grander scheme of things.

Renly wrinkles his nose before he finally, grudgingly relents.

“Now tell me, what’s the issue with Slynt? Anything I can help you with?”

“That cunt demands an increase in pay for his men, citing an upsurge in efforts … I should have him deposed and replaced, upjumped halfwit that he is, only I don’t know with whom.”

Lyanna gives a shrug, pondering the issue for a moment while she takes a sip. “That doesn’t actually sound unreasonable, what with the funeral and the tourney and … The City Watch will have a lot to do over the next couple of moon’s turns, I don’t see what is to be said against remunerating them accordingly?”

“Oh Lyanna …” Renly gives an exasperated sigh that borders on insubordination, but she finds herself glad that he doesn’t immediately defer to courtesies as any other man in his position would have done. “You do realise that not one simple gold cloak will actually benefit from that, _Commander_ Slynt being the corrupt and power-hungry bastard he is? Also I don’t know if we have the coin to spare, considering …” He sighs again, rubbing his brow. “I’m but the Master of Laws, the Master of Coin is drunk out of his mind in some brothel down by the harbour and has been for days.”

“ _Considering_ ,” Lyanna repeats, dumbfounded, and then realisation hits her, “Are you meaning to say that … the crown’s debt is worse than I thought?”

“Aye,” Renly shrugs rather meekly, “I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but …”

“Don’t,” Lyanna puts in, knowing full well what he wanted to say. _Robert’s_ _escapades_ _have all but bankrupted us,_ _for all that it’s been a long and prosperous summer_ _._ She’d suspected, of course she had, she’d been taught to run a household after all, only every man trying to assuage her fears and avert any further questions hadn’t been aware that this meant being good with sums first and foremost. She gives a deep sigh. “How bad is it?”

“Don’t worry,” Renly says, taking a telltale deep gulp himself while he tries to rein himself in, “we have everything under control and Mace Tyrell is more than willing to help out.”

She raises an eyebrow. _Willing or not, Mace Tyrell isn’t exactly_ _known as_ _a_ _philanthropist_ , she thinks. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“You won’t go hungry or naked is all.”

She wants to slap him now, she really does. “Have Lord Tyrion summoned at his earliest convenience. Have the guards extract him from the pillow house if need be, send Loras if you don’t trust any of Slynt’s men to be discrete and determined about it,” she says instead, and it’s not a suggestion, “Also, do compile a complete report on expenses for the tourney. I’ll have Allyria do the same for the funeral. I did say we wouldn’t spare any expenses but it seems it’s necessary after all, so I’d rather know in advance.”

Renly has drawn himself up, clutching his hands together on the desk as he gives her a wide-eyed stare out of curious blue-green eyes. “Lyanna,” he starts, a questioning tone in his voice that quickly becomes subservient when he succumbs to hollow courtly phrases, “with all due respect, Your Grace, but …”

She cuts him off with an exasperated huff. “I’m the Queen Regent now, Renly. That’s what I do, I take charge and I reign. But before I can do that I must know what I’m up against.”

Renly stares her down for a moment that becomes awkwardly long, and then he lets out a deep exhale. “Good,” he says, unsmiling.

“You really think so?”

She doesn’t know exactly why she’s seeking his approval but it feels important to have it nevertheless and she finds herself utterly relieved when Renly nods gravely. He doesn’t give any further explanation, though, and she knows better than to ask. They share a smile that’s half companionable and half conspiratorial before they both turn back to their affairs – Renly to his ledger and Lyanna to her correspondence. At some point, much later, a servant enters to light the candles, and they’re still not done for the day, still working in congenial silence and occasionally commenting on whatever catches their interest.

 _My Queen,_ she reads, grinning to herself like a little girl, _finding myself confined in a filthy, gloomy place full of vile odours and repulsive people I seek the one person who might be able to commiserate, knowing this situation first hand. Thankfully, this brave vessel will have reached Pentos come tomorrow, unloading her cargo that consists of barrels upon barrels of putrid fermented foods and one very miserable prince. I am eager to step out of the dark and embrace the Dawn again, and the laughter of children and freedom that it brings; it’s been so many years since I’ve last been here that I cannot even remember the colours of the morning that has broken on these shores. Would that you could see it with your own eyes, my Queen, revelling in the joys of this place as I am wont to do, but rest assured that I will tell you all about it at my earliest convenience! Distractions aside I will make sure to write ere I progress to Norvos in an attempt to ~~salvage my poor brother’s marriage~~ mayhap encourage these proud people to further engage in commerce with the Seven Kingdoms. _

Lyanna cannot help it, she gives a curt but bellowing laugh that makes Renly turn to her with a furrowed forehead and a raised brow. She waves it off rather absent-mindedly.

“Oh, just Oberyn being his ridiculous old self. He’s a poet alright, only not a very good one.”

Renly’s brow rises even higher; some of the legendary Tyrell disdain must have rubbed off on him. “In a _letter of condolence?”_

Just to be sure Lyanna turns the piece of parchment and checks the date scrawled at the very bottom of the page, just underneath his flourishing signature that says _Faithfully yours, always_ _–_ _Oberyn N. M_.

“It was written three days before Robert died. A welcome reminder of happier days in the midst of all this. Some drivel about sunrises and the hardships of seafaring is just what I needed to cheer me up, not yet another lord I’ve never even met telling me that my late husband will be sorely missed with the same hollow phrases the last three-and-thirty of his peers used.”

Her voice had unintentionally become sharper, by the time she finished her sentence she was all but snapping at Renly whose face bore no trace of emotion. She desperately wants to go back to the letter, losing herself in Oberyn’s words, parsing the underlying meaning of his cryptic words. Renly mutters an apology she gladly accepts. They’ve both been on the edge recently, lingering upon it would not do.

“How come you and the prince get along so famously?” Renly asks, barely an afterthought before he turns back to his ledger, “It does seem rather unlikely, if you don’t mind me saying, after everything that happened with …”

It’s the awkwardness of the incomplete sentence that grates at her, not the implication. For all that it was probably better this way she sometimes wishes that everyone would stop tiptoeing around her, around the issue, and just say it, and her name, out loud. _Elia. What happened with Elia. The unsaid, and the unspeakable. Oberyn is the only one who dares,_ _in seventeen years he’s been the only one who ever dared_ _and I would have lost my mind had it not been for him and his untoward candour_ _._

“Need I remind you that the very man who has since become your good-father would have been responsible for your own death had your intrepid knight of onions been delayed for only a day or two more?” she states bluntly, shrugging her shoulders rather defensively, “Need I remind you that you were eagerly plotting ways to make one Loras Tyrell pay for his father’s actions and your own suffering when Robert decided to make the boy squire for you? Yet here you are …”

Renly winces before he breaks out into the widest grin she’s ever seen on him. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re having an affair with Oberyn fucking Martell?” he cries, positively scandalised. He’s always thrived on gossip after all, and she’s glad that he’s taken the bait.

Lyanna guffaws nevertheless, shivering in disgust at the same time. “Gods, no. I’m not having an affair, you cheeky bugger! Least of all with Oberyn!” _I’m not Rober_ _t after all,_ she wants to add but doesn’t, _and I’ve had more than enough of_ _perpetually intoxicated_ _philanderers in my life,_ _thank you very much_ _._ _Enough of all of it, actually, I’ve been wedded and widowed more often than I would’ve liked._

“You’re in love, then. You’ll wed the prince as soon as you’re out of mourning.”

Whether he’s teasing or serious she couldn’t say, but they’ve always maintained a spirit of easy-going camaraderie, so she throws a block of black-and-gold sealing wax at him to make her point. “Oberyn is a good friend is all.”

“If you say so,” Renly says with an innuendo-laden drawl and a nonchalant shrug that says _I don’t believe you_ , and turns back to his ledger. “I wouldn’t begrudge you some happiness, you know,” he adds, softly and seriously, after a long pause, “you of all people, Lyanna. You deserve it after all you’ve been through.”

 _After all I’ve been through indeed._ She prefers not to think about it until she does. She still remembers being a wolf-blooded girl with nothing but sniggering disdain for romance and other trivial matters of the heart – but that was _before_. Succumbing to nostalgia would not do, not now. Lyanna gives a sigh, crumpling the letter in her fist.

“It wasn’t all bad, Renly, though it’s easier to think of it that way … You wouldn’t remember, you were at Storm’s End and too busy playing lord and falling in love, but we did have a couple of happy years after I learned that I was pregnant with Sansa.”

“What happened?”

Lyanna finds herself staring into her lap, cracking at her knuckles. “Alys happened,” she says, nearly inaudible, “I failed, again, to give him an heir, while Stannis and Cersei had two boys already.”

She vividly remembers Robert’s disappointment; his exuberantly beaming pride when the nurse handed the newborn babe over to him and the way his face fell when the woman uttered the dreaded words _‘A beautiful little princess for House Baratheon, Your Grace!’._ He’d refused to look at her, at both of them, despite having been a wonderfully attentive and playful father to Sansa so far; he even refused to choose a name for her - _‘_ _Durran_ _, his name would be_ _Durran_ _!’_ -, and when Lyanna named her for Good Queen Alysanne out of defiance he didn’t even protest; and with every attempt Lyanna made to reconcile their family he withdrew even more. Robert Baratheon was little more than a spoilt brat, Lyanna realised in the midst of her anguish, one who would shamelessly throw tantrums if something didn’t go exactly as he wanted to, when plans went awry and even more so if the matter was way out of his control. Over the course of their marriage she had learned that he was quick to anger and equally quick to forgive, so she decided to focus on Alys, who turned out to be a difficult babe full of Baratheon fury, for the time being and wait until he’d come around. She was so determined to see it through, to become a happy and stable family again, not only for her own and her daughters’ sakes but also for the children she’d sworn to protect, knowing full well that she needed to be close to her dissolute husband and in his good graces to keep them safe.

“I thought everything would be alright at long last, that I’d come to love him even. And then …”, she sighs, rubbing her brow with the back of her hand, unaware that she’d spoken out loud.

One day, shortly after Alys had seen her third moon’s turn and the maester had declared her fully recovered from the ordeals of childbirth, Jon Arryn had cornered her and demanded that she make amends, that she apologise – _whatever for_ , she thought bitterly – and give him an heir post-haste. Robert was already well into his cups when she sought him out, drunk enough not to be his usual raucous and genial inebriated self anymore. He, who had always been adamant that she was the love of his life despite everything, proceeded to call her all the names in the book and then some. She’ll never forget the hurt and the hate in his bloodshot eyes when he caught her arm as she turned to leave, unwilling to face any more insults. _‘_ _I fought a war for you, Gods damn it woman, I made you queen!_ _Why did I even bother to_ _do save_ _you_ _if you can’t even give me a son_ _?_ _Is that too much to ask? Can’t very well build my dynasty on a bunch of stupid girls, can I now? Seems like girls is all you can do,_ _girls and making me miserable_ _._ _I should’ve known!_ _Should’ve left you to rot at his mercy …_ _D_ _amned dragon scorched your womb, I should’ve wed the Lannister cunt in your stead.’_ Of course he’d apologised, profusely so, as soon as he’d sobered up again and miraculously still remembered what he’d said, but no matter how many jewels and horses he gave her to assuage his guilt, Lyanna found herself unable to forgive, let alone forget.

It was absurd, actually. She had forced herself not to ruminate on it for too long. _Robert wouldn’t even look at his daughter for want of a son._ _Rhaegar wanted a daughter so much we didn’t even consider a name for a boy child._

When she asked him what would happen to the prophecy if they had a son he’d given her one of his clear melodious laughs, bending down to her growing belly saying _‘Did you hear that, Visenya darling? Mummy’s being silly again.’_ \- but in the end, after some serious deliberation and poring over ancient scrolls and an exhaustive dictionary of High Valyrian all night, he’d come to the conclusion that the sex might not matter after all and yet he still stayed convinced that it would be a girl. When her son was born the world was burning around her and all she knew was that she couldn’t possibly name the child Rhaegar or Rickard or Brandon, lest she fall to pieces every time she say or even think his name, so she named him Aemon, a solid Targaryen name borne by disproportionally many sane forebears and one beloved uncle in particular to honour the legacy he would have to hide for too long. She had come to understand that this child would never truly be hers by the time her brother and his men were charging towards the tower that had become home. She had placed the babe in Arthur Dayne’s arms – _promise me, Arthur_ – never to see him again while she rehearsed her story all the way from Dorne to King’s Landing. _I miscarried a babe, female and three months premature_ , is what she’d said – _‘don’t say “daughter”, don’t let them jump to conclusions if you can avoid it,’_ Arthur had warned her more than once – and gritting her teeth she’d added, _‘a bastard,’_ before she provided details about the alleged abduction and subsequent rape upon incessant questioning.

_Forgive me, Aemon. Forgive me, Rhaegar. Forgive me. I will make it right again, I promise._

Renly, oblivious of the details of course, leans over with a deep sigh and a compassionate smile, squeezing her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Lyanna.”

Lyanna forces her lips to curl upwards. “Just don’t ever do that to your wife,” is all she says, “I’ve raised you better than that.”

Renly blanches and quickly turns away.

“What is it?” Lyanna prods, “Renly, is aught amiss?”

Renly silently pours himself a glass of wine, chugs it in one fell gulp, and fills it to the brim again. “It’s not working,” he finally admits after much prodding and long silences.

“Be patient … I had been married for more than three years already when I had Sansa. It takes time sometimes, even for a man who is renowned for his prowess between the sheets.”

“Fuck Robert and his glorious royal cock!” Renly roars.

Lyanna meets his infuriated gaze and stares him down for a long time while he calms himself. It doesn’t take much to guess the nature of the problem after all; she won’t embarrass them both by prying any further. A part of her, the part that is both sister and mother to him, pities him and poor Margaery too; the other part of her, the Queen, finds herself deeply concerned for more than one reason.

“It’s been a long day, Renly,” she says, trying to sound conciliatory, “Let’s finish up and head for dinner. The family will be waiting and it might be one of the lasts night before this place turns into a beehive.”

“Yes, let’s,” is all Renly says, slamming the ledger shut. “How long do we have until Lord Bollocks-in-a-Twist and Lady Cunt grace us with the pleasure of their company?”

Rising, the Queen gives a humourless sigh. “Three days, unless the winds are in our favour. And no, I don’t want to hear any fantasy of yours that involves storms and shipwrecks or ravenous sea monsters, thank you very much. You’re better than that.”

“But never as good as _him_ ,” Renly chuckles bitterly, refusing to say Stannis’ name as he is wont to do when he’s hurting, “and it will become even worse now that he’s the heir.”

“It will become worse now that Cersei fancies herself crown princess.”

A sense of dread wrenches Lyanna’s gut as Renly laughs sarcastically. Of course Cersei will never be the crown princess, not if everything goes well, but Lyanna is sure that she will fight that predicament with teeth and claws and, more importantly, her father’s money. _Maybe I should reconsider Oberyn’s mad idea, cruel as it may be,_ _and b_ _etroth the girl to the imp._ The thought makes her nauseous as it crosses her mind, despite finding herself in dire need of anything that would keep Cersei, and more importantly Tywin, in check. _It’s no_ _t as if the other options were more desirable for a fifteen-year-old princess. But then again we don’t have the luxury of love matches; in the end, no one has,_ she tells herself off immediately, another twinge of sadness crawling over her, and she finds herself praying that Oberyn’s next letter would arrive shortly, telling her more about the girl’s character instead of his exploits with her guardian _._ _If she’s anything like her brother this is going to end in disaster either way._

The Queen and her good-brother walk towards Maegor’s Holdfast in companionable silence, both deep in their own thoughts, until Renly speaks up again. “Loras has an interesting theory, you know?”

Lyanna cocks her head aside and lifts an eyebrow.

“He actually thought it up last time they were at court, I just remembered this morning. Well …” – he starts to laugh there, pausing and leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper – “he strongly suspects that they must’ve found Cella and Shireen in a cabbage patch somewhere on the roadside because they’re so unlike either of them. And I must concede he has a point there.”

Lyanna gives a gruff laugh. “That is utterly ridiculous,” she states, “Myrcella looks like Cersei did at that age. I knew her then, if only briefly … she was a cunt alright, albeit a beautiful one.”

“Beautiful she is, and Shireen too despite the scarring. And what makes them most beautiful is that they’re not like Cersei, or Stannis for that matter, not at all,” Renly reiterates, “You should consider fostering them lest some of that lion poison or general Dragonstone morosity rubs off.”

“Cersei would never …” Lyanna shakes her head regretfully. She’d considered the idea before but her good-sister had been adamant not to be parted from her children and Robert had been equally intent on not having Stannis and Cersei back at court since their last major row. “Also, why do you care so much?”

“I like being an uncle.” Renly shrugs with a nonchalance that’s so fake it hurts. “I might not become a father anytime soon so I see it as my duty to spoil all my nieces and nephews rotten, all eight – no, nine, there’ll be nine of them soon enough.” Lyanna does a mental tally: Sansa, Alys and Tommen, Joffrey, Myrcella and Shireen (though he didn’t account for poor, dead Steffon who would’ve been a much better heir to Stannis than Joffrey, Lyanna notices), and of course Renly would consider himself uncle to the Tyrell children as well, Garlan’s boys Jannos and Ormond and Willas’ unborn babe. “I’d lay the world at their feet if that’s what they want. Luckily enough Loras feels quite the same, he’d slay a dragon for each and every one of them. Well, maybe not for Joff, but you get the point …”

Lyanna, getting the point so well it constricts her throat and leaves her pale and breathless, freezes on the spot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some additional information:
> 
>  
> 
> **Robert I Baratheon's Small Council**
> 
>  
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> Hand of the King: Jon Arryn  
> Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Barristan Selmy  
> Master of Coin: Tywin Lannister (with Tyrion Lannister acting in his stead)  
> Master of Laws: Renly Baratheon  
> Master of Ships: Paxter Redwyne (replaced Stannis Baratheon after the brothers had a major dispute some years back)  
> Master of Whisperers: Varys  
> Grand Maester: Pycelle
> 
> Littlefinger is (fortunately? unfortunately? that's up to you to decide!) dead in this AU. He succumbed to the injuries he suffered in his infamous duel with Brandon, mainly because I believe that a severe gash from navel to collarbone wouldn't not go septic in a world without antibiotics. Lysa Tully died shortly after because of the botched abortion, leaving only Catelyn to use as a pawn in a marriage plot after Brandon and Rickard Stark's execution given that Ned and Ashara were already married at that point. Just FYI, I'll make sure to expand on the details in a later chapter.
> 
> Thank you all for your bookmarks, kudos and comments - please keep them coming. Extra thanks to Ketch for being a fantastic and diligent beta. 
> 
> Next stop: Essos! Where we'll finally meet Daenerys and "Jon Snow" (whose name obviously isn't Jon Snow, but don't worry it's not Aegon either)


	8. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has been given permission to accompany the small vanguard consisting of her mother, her brother and two guardsmen to White Harbour. She's keen on an adventure, but what she learns underway agitates her more than shadowcats and bandits ever could.

For all that she would have preferred to go hunting with her brother and the guardsmen, Arya finds that she doesn’t much mind tending to the horses either. They have been riding downstream along the banks of the river Cerbeck for three days now, further away from home than Arya had ever been in all the eleven years of her life. Jory had said that, weather permitting, they would reach the fork where the Cerbeck meets the White Knife come noon tomorrow, and White Harbour some three days later. As of now their trip hadn’t been quite as adventurous as Arya had anticipated when she’d begged her lady mother to let her come along – no wildling or mountain-clan raiders in sight, not even plain regular bandits, only the occasional bargeman, traveller or shepherd who would greet them with an infuriatingly polite tip of his hat before they made way again. A shadowcat’s howl two nights ago had made her toes tingle with excitement, but Robb had laughed and twisted her ear, telling her it was only the wind or mayhap the accelerating currents of the river approaching the waterfalls a mile or two downstream with the most condescending big-brother voice he could muster. Arya harrumphs with disappointment and proceeds to rub Morningstar, her lady mother’s precious courser, down with a wad of dried grass she’d collected earlier.

Arya can smell snow in the air and feel a chill rising from the river, it wasn’t summer any more. The horses are still steaming; the terrain along the riverbanks wasn’t difficult in any way and they had been careful not to over-exert their mounts underway, but riding from dawn to sunset had nevertheless taken its toll. _If a horse is left sweating it might catch a chill and tear a muscle and go lame_ , Hullen’s admonitory voice rings in her head.

“There, there, good boy,” she mumbles, affectionately scratching behind Morningstar’s jowls as she tosses the dampened wad of grass aside. The black courser gives an annoyed snort, shaking his head as if Arya were a particularly pesky fly. He’s never been the most affable beast; Arya doesn’t understand why Mother even bothers with him, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t bestow him with the very best care she could muster.

She didn’t need Hullen to remind her; he might be Winterfell’s master of horse but she’s a skilled horsewoman herself despite her age, she knows full well what to do and that she has to be particularly attentive to Morningstar. While his sand steed blood makes him faster and more light-footed it also makes him less robust than a regular northern-bred horse. It figures, she thinks, taking a step back and watching the horses as she collects more wads of dry brownish-grey grass. He stands a hand and a half taller than the other horses, slighter and more elegant of build, and the winter coat he’s growing looks like the summer coat of any one northern mount. She rubs him down with fervour and tosses a thick blanket over his back before she tends to the next horse, Jory’s bay mare aptly named Skagos for a white fleck in the form of the island between her eyes.

After having rubbed down all six mounts, covering them in blankets for the night and applying a putrid salve of marmot oil and camphor and other herbs to the tendons on their legs she goes to fetch the bag of grain from the packsaddle and pours out two handfuls for each horse. They have been grazing since they stopped for the night but the meagre vegetation in these parts, half-dead from the hoarfrosts or half-rotten from the waters of the river, would not do, not when they need the energy to make it to White Harbour post-haste.

A soft muzzle hits her rather harshly. A thin layer of ice on a frozen puddle crackles when she clumsily stumbles aside, fending off the beast’s advances.

“Oh, fuck off, Winter!” she cries, playfully swatting her white palfrey who seems to be more interested in the sack of grain in Arya’s hand than in the pile of oats on the ground.

Luckily enough there is no one near who might admonish her for swearing. Robb and Jory are off to shoot some waterfowl for dinner, Desmond is lazily filling their skins in the river and singing to himself, and she can barely make out the form of her lady mother who is gathering kindling for a fire in the nearby copse of bare and scrawny trees.

With a relieved sigh she turns to the heap of tack she’d left on the ground, busying herself with picking it up and untangling the reins one by one. It’s a menial task she’d always enjoyed; growing up she’d spent many an afternoon in the tack room with Hullen’s grandchildren and the stableboys, oiling the saddles and polishing the bits, until her mother had insisted that she turn to more ladylike endeavours like embroidery and calligraphy and playing the stupid zither. Despite what everyone – Serena and Septa Mordane first and foremost – said, and accusingly so, it wasn’t the fact that it was considered _ladylike_ that bothered her, it was the sheer _futility_ of it all. She was good at caring for horses and everything else it entailed, at least Hullen said so, and she’d always wanted to be useful and contribute to the upkeep of the household. Ladylike tasks she finds pointless though, superfluous even. Nobody actually _needs_ silver-threaded embroidery on a tunic when winter is coming, or fancy flourishes in a letter of import, and the tunes the villagers play on their fiddles and fifes are way better for lifting the spirits than the drudging wail of a badly-struck zither, let alone a high harp. Why her parents wouldn’t see reason on that matter eludes her.

She chews her lower lip in frustration while she sorts the leathers and watches the horses, wincing in pain when another flaky sliver of dried skin comes off between her teeth. It’s not summer any more, and while they had been lucky enough not to encounter any snowfalls since they left Castle Cerwyn behind the wind had been sharp all along; sharp enough to make her ears hurt and her skin crack. She winces once more when she touches her fingers to her chapped lips, inadvertently rubbing some residue of the acrid salve she used on the horses’ legs into the wound. Licking her lips doesn’t help either, the biting tension that’s not quite pain comes returns intensified a moment later.

She’s a tough one, she doesn’t approve of whining. She’d scraped her knees unflinching time and time again, she’d even managed to keep a straight face after breaking her collarbone two summers ago when her pony threw her jumping a ditch in the Wolfswood, and yet …

“Ugh,” she grunts, biting back a curse when the cold air pulls on her drying bruises again.

How is it even possible that chapped lips seem to hurt more than a broken bone? An adventure is what she wanted, she wouldn’t let the wind and an itch get in her way now. Then she remembers that for all that they’re travelling light her lady mother still keeps an assortment of toiletries in her bag. Arya herself had never been one for vanity, she’d even pretended to forget when Mother had reminded her to pack ‘everything a young lady should never be without’, because who would actually care what she looked like on the trail? Certainly not Winter. But … _Needs must_ , she thinks, _also,_ _liniment_ _for chapped lips and bruises and saddle sores is an entirely different matter_ _altogether_ _. It’s not that I would want to paint my lips in the style of fancy southron ladies like Serena is wont to do. Cerulean red my arse!_

Setting the sheepskin saddle pad she’d been brushing aside she looks up. They had made camp in a glade nestled between the riverbank and a rustling copse of birches and willows that somewhat break the winds. The men have pitched a tarp to offer some additional protection from the elements, laying their bedrolls close to each other and huddling for warmth. Most nights Arya chooses to bed with them, curling into her favourite brother’s arms as she watches the embers die down and the stars twinkling in the crisply clear night’s sky. It’s the closest she ever got to a real adventure after all and a bit of cold and discomfort is a small price to pay for that, she thinks. Her lady mother, of course, doesn’t sleep in the rough. She has a small tent of her own, placed to the other side of the fireplace. Last night, when the cold got nearly unbearable, she was tempted to take her up on her offer and crawl in with her in the hour of the wolf, but in the end she was loath to admit defeat so she only cuddled closer to Robb, trying her best to ignore Desmond’s incessant snoring all the while willing herself to fall asleep.

She leaps to her feet, swiftly running over to the tent and diving under the flap unnoticed after a quick glance to make sure that the horses are alright. _I should have brought a lamp_ , is the first thing she thinks, while it had been only dusky outside it was much darker underneath the heavy waxed cloth, but she’s too lazy and too task-focused to turn back, so she blinks instead and blinks again until her eyes have adjusted.

The tent’s interior is entirely unremarkable, barely big enough to hold one bedroll, barely high enough to kneel without hitting one’s head, it doesn’t compare to the lofty pavilions the men use when they’re out travelling on a progress. The bag she was looking for is sat at the tail end of the bedroll; Arya gives a triumphant smirk and starts rummaging, knowing full well that her lady mother would disapprove. _Don’t make a mess, Arya, or she’ll have your hide alright!_

Arya flinches when she hears steps and finds herself relieved when they pass the tent.

 _Silly!_ _s_ he thinks, _it’s not like_ _I’m doing anything wrong, I’m just looking for that liniment Mother uses to soften her skin._ It’s in a small earthen pot, she remembers, it smells of beeswax and sheep’s wool _and it should be here somewhere, dammit_.

There are voices approaching, Arya ignores them as she scrambles, wondering how her lady mother could fit so many things into such a small bag. She has lost count on the things she carefully set aside, knowing better than to wreak havoc on her precious belongings: a shawl, a vial of perfume, a pair of rough knitted stockings, a pot of tinted cream (not the liniment she was looking for, dammit!), a cube of sealing wax, another shawl, a scattering of hairpins scooped up in a plain silk handkerchief, a can of Dornish spiced tea-powder, a small leather pouch containing various items of jewellery …

Outside, a lamp is lit, and then the fire, making her task easier when the light drizzles through the thick cloth of the tent. She ignores the faint voices, her brain registers that it’s Robb and Mother speaking, but she doesn’t care to listen to their actual conversation while she continues to rummage.

“For every reason I have to do this I seem to find a dozen more not to. War is inevitable, Mother, if we follow through …”

Arya sits back in her heels, surprised. By now she has all but forgotten why she was in her mother’s tent in the first place. She had been absentmindedly examining a thick scroll of parchments tied together with an orange ribbon she found underneath yet another shawl – letters, more likely than not –, and when she squints she can make out faint writing in a dainty cursive script she doesn’t recognise. _Lady Lyanna of Winterfell_ , it reads, and she tosses them aside with a shrug. For all that she doesn’t want to eavesdrop Robb’s voice outside seems more interesting all of a sudden. Way more interesting than obscure letters meant for her aunt.

“Don’t you worry. Our cause is just and our bannermen are loyal.”

Arya gives a silent gasp, clutching her thighs as her hands inadvertently begin to tremble. Nobody had confided in her, so this was her chance to find out what was really going on, something she had been wondering about ever since their brief stay at Castle Cerwyn when Mother and Lord Cerwyn had wordlessly disappeared into the lord’s solar and stayed there for hours – which was strange, because Mother doesn’t even _like_ Medger Cerwyn despite him being their closest neighbour and ally! For but a moment she remembers all her lessons about propriety and what her lord father and the septa had told her about respecting others’ privacy, but then curiosity got the better of her. If she was coming along she had as much a right to know as anyone, or so it seemed to her. Eavesdropping was just as wrong as keeping secrets in the first place after all.

“Nevertheless … _Mother!_ For all that I was but a boy when Father left to fight the Ironborn Rebellion I still remember what he said back then: War always comes at a cost and even the most loyal bannermen will want recompensation for their losses at the very least. Rewards for their loyalty, more likely. Have you …”

“Of course we have!” Mother’s voice is so scathing that Arya can all but hear her shake her head in disdain. “Gods, Robb … The salt taxes have been set aside for your cause from the very beginning. Do you understand?”

The North, Arya knows, depends entirely on salt for prosperity. Salt, and some precious metals that can be found in the mountain ranges that lie north of Winterfell. Timber from the expanses of the forests and peat from the bogs and moors are used mainly for subsistence but salt and some ores are traded. Arya remembers the pride in her lord father’s voice when he’d explained about the significance of salt, that neither his father and all their forebears nor the chieftains of the mountain clans had ever realised its worth until he’d returned from the South. Being young and eager, and newly appointed as Lord and Warden, he had dared to explore and exploit the opportunity that had been under their noses since the dawn of time for the first time ever, allowing the clansmen to mine for the precious mineral native to the Northern hills and mountains. She’d never actually cared, but given that her lord father could go on and on and on about the topic – his legacy, he liked to call it – she knew more about it than she’d ever wanted to know, only she doesn’t quite understand what they’re talking about right now.

“And what if it’s not enough?”

“Not idly has the union between your sister and the heir of Highgarden been arranged!”

Arya tastes blood again, she’s bitten her tongue. The pain does nothing to addle the harsh reality of the words she’d just heard. She leaps up in panic, barging out of her mother’s tent where she shouldn’t have been in the first place, finally making her presence known when she stumbles over one of the pitch lines in a rather undignified way.

She wants to yell. Alas, what comes out of her mouth is only a hoarse croak. Clearing her throat she repeats herself, but she grudgingly has to admit that her words are lacking effect now on the second try.

“What?! How could you?!” she spits, trying to remember everything she’d learned about Highgarden and its heir during Maester Luwin’s painstakingly boring lessons on houses and lineages she couldn’t manage to sneak out of.

“Arya …” Mother says so kindly it makes her want to scream and rage.

“He’s ancient! Five-and-twenty at least!” she cries, righteously enraged on behalf of her sister.

Of course Serena had always dreamt of wedding a lord and becoming the lady of a big house like her mother before her, of princes and knights and dances and all that nonsense, but … for all that Arya couldn’t understand the appeal, if that was her sister’s dream she certainly deserved better than _that_. The heir of bloody Highgarden!

“Don’t you know that there’s something wrong with him? He’s crippled or not right in the head or something. Not as bad as the Imp of Lannister, or so they say, but … how could you do this to Serena?”

“Arya,” Mother says again and there’s an edge in her voice that’s not as calming as it was meant to be, “Arya, please … you needn’t worry for Serena, though I must admit I’m glad that you do. She’ll wed Quentyn Martell when she comes of age, you know that, right?”

“She liked him well enough when they met, three years ago when we were travelling the Seven Kingdoms,” Robb puts in, “Also, she’ll be a princess. She’ll like that more than anything.”

Arya gives an exasperated huff as the tension that has been building up in her belly leaves her for a moment. “Good for her. I won’t call her _Your Grace_ though, not ever, Others take me!”

“Dornish princes and princesses aren’t styled ‘Your Grace’, only _royal_ princes and princesses are,” Mother reminds her gently.

“I won’t call _you_ ‘Your Grace’ either,” Arya insists, turning to Robb, “when you wed Cousin Sansa and become a princess, that is …”

When Robb punches her side before he doubles over laughing, his pale face turning beetroot red as he hiccups, Arya finds herself strangely relieved. And then it hits her: _The union between your sister and the heir of Highgarden_. The heir of bloody Highgarden! Your sister. Not Serena. _Yoursisteryoursisteryoursister_ …

She cannot breathe. She can barely hold herself upright when the realisation kicks her straight into the gut.

“Me?!” she splutters.

Her fists clench involuntarily and tears of rage spring into her eyes as she charges at her mother.

_Liar! Traitor! Two-faced bitch!_

She doesn’t dare shout it out loud, for all that these insults and then some are tickling on her tongue. She resorts to violence instead, lashing out at the ever-stoic figure of the Lady of Winterfell … the very same who had been so vocal in her disdain for southron marriage customs, assuring her children that they would never be pawns in some ridiculous scheme for power, citing her egalitarian Dornish mores whenever the topic arose.

Only now did Arya realise the bitter irony of her lady mother's words … Bran was betrothed to Wylla Manderly, granddaughter of one of the richest and most influential Northern lords – she’d always thought it a coincidence, Weird Wylla had been fostered at Winterfell until very recently and despite quarrelling all the time she and Bran, who were barely more than a year apart in age, actually liked each other well enough. And Serena had always dreamt of being a princess, so betrothing her to one of the Martell boys made sense, even more so when she’d returned from their grand tour of all the Seven Kingdoms a couple of years ago – and oh how Arya wished she had been old enough to tag along! – gushing about the splendour of Sunspear and wanting to embrace her Dornish heritage. But Arya herself … _no!_ The thought alone makes her want to vomit.

“You’re planning to wed _me_ to … ?!”

She’s pounding into her mother’s chest as she catches her wrists.

“Arya,” Mother says, and there’s this infuriating kindness in her lilting voice again, “Arya, I’m sorry. I’m ever so sorry.”

“So _that’s_ why you let me come south with you! You lying, scheming …” Arya screams, writhing and struggling to escape from her mother’s hard grip, “When were you planning to tell me? If at all!?”

“Arya,” Robb puts in, and if he sounds despaired she really doesn’t care right now.

“Don’t you dare ‘Arya’ me! I’m not having it, do you hear me? I’m not!”

“ _Arya_!” Robb hollers, yanking her out of Mother’s grip to face him. “Arya, this isn’t about you. Please believe me, it’s not.”

“Oi! Get your filthy hands off me! You’re hurting me, idiot!”

Arya pulls away from his hard clutch on her shoulder. Never has she ever felt so disappointed and betrayed before – Robb was her favourite after all, the one who always had her back, the one who always understood even when Serena and Bran and Mother and Father didn’t. She wants to kick something, or someone, preferably Robb, but maybe a tree would do. _This isn’t about you_ indeed! How could it not be?

“I hate you!” she yells, “you’re not my brother! You were supposed to be, but you aren’t!”

“You’re right, I’m not,” Robb shouts back before Arya can turn and run.

“Robb … Robb, we talked about this! You cannot …” Mother cuts in warningly and Arya freezes on the spot.

For all that Robb’s shoulders are hunched and his face is a swamp of emotions Arya doesn’t care to decipher, it’s more than evident that he isn’t the complacent, well-mannered boy he used to be any more. All of a sudden he reminds her of their father in all his authority as he stands up to their mother.

“I can and I will,” he says, hoarsely but frighteningly calm, “She’s my _sister_ , Lady Stark.”

Arya cannot remember when, if ever, Robb – or any of her siblings, for that matter – had last addressed their mother as ‘Lady Stark’ when there was no-one else but family present. It chills her to the bone.

“For all that she’s not a woman grown yet she’s not exactly a child either,” Robb goes on with trembling conviction, “Furthermore, she’s your daughter. One should expect you to trust her. I do.”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” Mother says, ever so quietly, lowering her gaze and cracking her knuckles. Reciting this age-old Northern proverb she sounds more Dornish than ever; her accent, barely noticeable most of the time, always increases when she’s distressed.

Arya taps her foot impatiently. The rage had left her when she saw how insecure they both had become – the two people, save Father, whom she’d always trusted most to protect her, for all that she wasn’t a damsel in distress who actually needed protection of course. It didn’t make any sense, all of this, not at all.

“Others take me! What’s going on?” she demands when the silence gets deafening, and not being reprimanded for foul language immediately is the last clue that something is terribly, terrifyingly wrong.

“I’ll always be your brother, _always_ , come what may,” Robb says, forcing himself to smile, “but I’m not our parents’ natural-born son.”

Arya stumbles back in a haze until she hits a large boulder by the riverbank. She sits, covering her eyes as Robb talks and talks and then talks some more, she’s too shocked for words even. She can barely breathe as she begins to make sense of what Robb and Mother are telling her. She wants to vomit, wants to cry, but she would never allow herself to suffer the ignominy …

“How can you not be my brother?” she stutters when she finally finds her voice again.

Arya doesn’t want to believe it, she _cannot_. It’s way too surreal to be true and yet entirely too absurd to be a tall tale. Robb has always been her favourite, as she has been his, and both strangers and members of the household have been complimenting them on how alike they were for as long as she can remember.

Robb gives a deep, pained sigh. “This doesn’t change anything, sweet sister. I promise.”

“This changes everything,” she snarls, regretting her tone when she sees him wince. “All this talk about bloodlines and birthright and prophecy and … war, godsdammit Robb, _war?!_ That doesn’t sound like you any more. That sounds like some stupid fantasy of Theon’s! And you’ve always hated it when Theon gets all revenge-y and belly–”

“ _Belligerent_.”

Robb gives a smirk that makes Arya want to throttle him.

“ _Stupid_ ,” Arya insists, “that’s what I _said_!”

“Arya, darling, you really need to understand …”

Arya cuts her mother off with a cry. “I don’t _want_ to understand! This is _insane_!” She gasps then when a stray thought hits her, turning to her brother and clutching her little hands atop his. “Are you insane, Robb? _Are you!?_ ”

Robb’s forehead crinkles as it’s wont to do when he doesn’t quite know how to say, in a way that had always reminded Arya of their lord father … only he’s not _their_ father now, not any longer, is he? Mother gasps audibly, but before she can interfere Robb gives a shrug that’s equally sad and insecure.

“You know what they say. When a Targaryen is born the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

“You’re not …” Arya croaks.

“I am, I’m afraid. At least that’s what Mother and Father have been telling me.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant, not at all!” Arya leaps up, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. When she winces in pain it’s only because she never had the chance to retrieve her mother’s soothing balm and her bloody lips burn when she bites them. “You want to be _king_ , Robb. Why in all the seven hells would you want that?”

Robb shrugs awkwardly, pressing his lips into a thin and bloodless line. He stares at his muddy boots for too long, and just as Arya wants to snap at him impatiently he speaks up.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be a good liege-lord when the time comes, to ensure the prosperity of my lands and do good by its people. I’ve been learning how to for all my life after all …”

“Then why don’t you?” Arya shakes her head incredulously. “Stop this nonsense right now. Nobody need to know, nobody will ever know, not if you don’t tell them! Just bring your princess bride home and be a terrific Lord of Winterfell when …”

Mother pointedly clears her throat. Her glare is so scathing that she doesn’t even need to say _‘If you say “when Father kicks the bucket”_ _rest assured_ _I will strike you_ _so hard you'll feel it well into winter_ _, Arya Stark’_ out loud. Arya knows, and bites her tongue.

“It’s not that easy, Arya,” Robb puts in calmly, “but then again it is. Being king isn’t that different from being the lord of a castle and warden of a constituency after all … only on a fairly larger scale. I did believe I was born to become the Lord of Winterfell, only I wasn’t. I see that now.”

Arya gives a wordless huff, she’s not convinced at all, and when Robb lifts his pale eyebrows to stare her down she vows to herself that she won’t budge.

“It’s all about honour, alright?” he finally cries out, buckling under her steely stare and the belligerent fists pressed into her sides.

“You sound just like Father!”

“Now isn’t that ironic?”

Robb lowers his gaze, avoiding her stare. Arya can’t help herself; she runs before she says something she would probably come to regret.

She runs and runs and runs until she bumps into something hard or soft, she can’t even tell. When she looks up angry tears she doesn’t want to cry are still clouding her eyes. It’s Jory, a pheasant in hand.

“Oi! Where you headed when it’s nearly dinnertime?”

She stands and stares for a moment too long. For all that she feels like telling him to fuck off, that it’s none of his business, she can’t … she might not fear him as she fears Ser Rodrick or grumpy old Hallis, but respect him she does. So she only bites her lip and turns on her heel.

“Leave her be, Jory,” she hears Mother’s kindly voice somewhere far behind her, “I’m fairly certain she didn’t mean it, she’s had some distressing news. Knowing her, she’ll be with the horses. Now let’s see about this bird, shall we …”

Arya doesn’t turn to the horses for comfort, now that she’d heard her lady mother say that it was expected of her, nor does she return for dinner. She prowls the sorry excuse for a forest that is this copse of mangled trees beyond their camp until it’s pitch-dark, pounding her fists at innocent tree-trunks unable to find any kind of solace. She wants to scream but doesn’t, knowing that she’s entirely too close to camp and Mother would come hurrying, green with worry, if she did. She wants to pray but can’t, the black knots and scars in the eerie white bark of the birches aren’t quite a heart tree’s face and the trees here can’t calm her like the godswood back home would. So she paces, muttering curses to herself, and when she emerges from the woods to return to camp everyone has already retreated for the night.

Everyone but Robb. He sits on a boulder, poking a stick at the flames that don’t actually need any stoking. She approaches silently, on tiptoes, secretly offended that nobody actually came after her for an hour or so while she would have yelled at anyone who might’ve dared to.

“You’re not as stealthy as you think you are.”

Robb’s voice is calm and even as per usual, as if nothing had happened at all. Arya bites back every snide remark she would’ve thrust upon him with without any qualms _were he still her brother_. It’s tickling on her tongue, but … she’s still cross, and he fancies himself a bloody dragon king now, so she stands defiantly, crossing her arms and staring into the fire.

“Saved you a bowl of stew. Jory says to toss it into the river if you don’t want it or snow bears might raid our camp in the night …”

“Snow bears?” Arya blurts out and realises her mistake as soon as Robb turns to face her, mirth twinkling in his purple eyes visible even in the dusky firelight.

“There hasn’t been a snow bear south of the wall for millennia, silly.”

Arya winces. _Gods damn it, I’ve been had!_ Robb pats his left hand on the flat surface of the boulder he’s perched on. She concedes after thorough consideration that led her to the conclusion that she’s not ready to forgive him quite yet but she’s cold, so cold that her knuckles have turned blue and she can barely feel her toes, or her nose for that matter. They sit in silence for a long time, the embers are crackling and the river is rushing and Desmond is snoring and neither of them speaks until they do.

“I’d never let them marry you off to some random idiot who happens to have a title and a castle for politics’ sakes … not against your will, not ever … you know that, do you?”

“You’re even stupider than I ever thought you were.” Arya scoffs. “That’s what highborn daughters are for after all, even _I_ know that, only …”

“You thought you’d have a couple of years more?”

When Robb snakes his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close she doesn’t resist. She knows that he can feel her defeated nod, she knows that he knows her far too well to be fooled.

“And you will. And you’ll have a say if I have anything to say …”

He sounds so terribly confident she feels guilty not to chime in with him, and then she shrugs so nonchalantly it hurts. She might finally understand what Serena meant when she said what she said about wearing the mask of a lady; maybe even what Mother meant when she called it _bearing_ the demeanour of a lady.

“Well, I guess you will if you’re to be king.”

Robb flinches. A small part of Arya wants to throw her arms around him and hug him tight and tell him everything’s gonna be alright like he did when she was but a child with a nightmare, but she doesn’t quite dare so they sit in silence for a long time once more.

“Rhaenys,” he blurts out when the silence becomes unbearable, “My sister. My _other_ sister.”

“I don’t want to know,” Arya mutters.

“I know you do,” Robb says softly, and curse him to all the hells and back, _of cours_ e he’s right because he’s the older brother after all and therefore knows everything and then some. “Blood isn’t that important after all. Theon and Wylla, they’re basically our siblings despite not being related by blood.”

“Theon is a bloody idiot,” Arya churns out reluctantly, “and Weird Wylla has only been with us for a year or two, and she’s to marry Bran as soon as she bleeds, and _then_ she’ll be our sister. It’s not the same, Robb. It simply isn’t.”

“But it is.” Robb gives a shrug, tossing a stick into the fire and watching it crackle. “Rhaenys – that’s her name, _Rhaenys_ – she might be my blood, but my sister she is not. Not really. She never kicked me in the gut or pulled my hair, I never taught her how to shoot an arrow or sneak into Gage’s larder to nick a pie…”

Arya can’t help but laugh. “When you’re king, kicking you in the gut would be treason.”

“Probably.” Robb chimes in with her, pressing a smacked kiss upon the top of her head. “For anyone but family. If that’s not already a rule I will have to make one, because I really don’t want to have little Rickon executed for biting.”

The burgeoning laughter freezes in Arya’s throat. “That’s not funny, Robb.”

“You’re right, it isn’t.” Robb gives a deep sigh. “Do you still want this stew or not?”

Arya’s tummy responds before she can and she’s tucking in before she can as much as think about it. It’s rather good, even for travel fare, the creamy base thick and mushroomy with strips of meat that are charred and tender from the campfire. It lacks the vegetables she’s usually fond of, but the Dornish herbs and spices from Mother’s secret stash make up for it, and in the end she’s too ravenous to care much.

“We’ll meet her when we get to King’s Landing,” Robb says suddenly while Arya is still stuffing her face with stew and the last crumbs of the bread they’d acquired in a tiny village they’d passed a day and a half ago. “Rhaenys. My sister. My _other_ sister. Can you be nice to her, can you do that for me?”

Arya’s nose crinkles. “Will I like her?”

“How would I know?” Robb gives a helpless laugh, accompanied by a shrug. “I’ve never even met her, all I know is that she’s very much like _our mother_ , or so _my mother_ tells me.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Arya all but chokes on the last spoonful of stew.

“That it is,” Robb concedes, cracking his knuckles while he stares into the fire.

Arya sets the bowl aside. “Robb?”

“Yes?”

“Do you even want to be king?”

He didn’t even need to reply. As soon as he hesitates Arya knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you for your constant support - your comments and literally a hundred kudos have made me very happy and kept me motivated! Many thanks to Ketch, my awesome beta, whose comments have been crucial for this chapter. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. :)


	9. Willas II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tyrells are reunited at last when Willas and Moria arrive in King's Landing. Renly and Loras have some inhibitions about Prince Tommen's capacity to rule.

Lady Moria Tyrell is concealing her scowl in a perfumed silk handkerchief, pretending that keeping the stench of the capital at bay was her primary motive, as their carriage pulls up on the ample central forecourt of the Red Keep. They had been quarrelling for the better part of the ten days spent on the road and every truce they’d negotiated had been thrown into the wind sooner or later when Moria’s fiery Dornish temper – not to mention her hot-boiling dragon blood and the dreaded mood-swings of recent motherhood – flared up again, and it all boiled down to whether or not they would tell their nearest and dearest about Moria’s real identity and all it entailed and how they might deal with those who already knew.

Willas was weary of fighting when they'd arrived at the First Inn just beyond the Kingswood where the Rose Road and the Storm Road met at evenfall last night, and only then had they called a truce. They had risen at the very crack of dawn, taking their time to make themselves presentable and don appropriate mourning garb – a black frock-coat with green-and-gold braids on the edges for Willas, a terribly old-fashioned gown of the swampiest, blackest shade of green borrowed from her goodmother for Moria – and after some poor excuse for breakfast, porridge and tea at this sorry roadside inn that was usually only frequented by highwaymen and bandits, they’d made way to the capital. An hour and a half to the gates of the city walls, an hour more to traverse the busy streets of the capital and ascend Aegon’s Hill all the way up to the mighty ancient fortress.

The sight of the Red Keep would never cease to amaze Willas. This building is so much more than most famous and splendid of fortresses, so much more than a monument to recent Westerosi history and a symbol of the Targaryen rule that had survived both the extinction of the dragons and the downfall of the dynasty – it is the beating heart of the realm. While a part of him still wants to gape at the architecture – the massive square tower belonging to the original Aegonfort that gives an impression of lightness in spite of its gigantic proportions, the crenellated sandstone walls and their ferocious iron ramparts built by Maegor the Cruel, the tall and slender White Sword Tower that looks all but out of place next to the seven main drum-towers of the keep – peeking out from behind the curtains and pressing his face against the carriage’s too-small windowpane like the awestruck young man he was when he last visited, the other part of him is filled with anticipation and, yes, dread, at what is to come. This is not a leisurely visit after all.

The carriage pulls to a jolting halt right in front of the main portal. Demut, the coachman, gives a loud shout; Willas can’t tell whether it’s meant for the horses or for him and his company or the servants of the royal household who have come scurrying outside to receive them with all honours.

“Here at last,” he says, for want of anything less obvious to say.

“Let’s get this over and done with,” Nym quips sardonically.

His lady wife doesn’t say a word, she only presses the babe to her bosom and the perfumed handkerchief to her nose.

Only when Demut comes over to open the doors of the carriage and Ser Hugh Ashford, his personal guard and right-hand-man, offers a hand to the ladies and the babe first and then to him, does he realise how utterly frenzied and insane their trip had been, rushing along in the lightest carriage available with a party of no more than Nymeria, Ser Hugh and two more mounted guards in addition to the coachman and their little family of three. But it had to be done, the king was dead, there was no other option.

Willas Tyrell leans onto his cane as soon as he had descended from the frightful contraption that was this carriage. He takes a moment to breathe and to gaze upon the grand portal to the Red Keep with all its intricate carvings and reliefs and the gargoyles disdainfully staring down at the newly arrived visitors, and one more figure that was most certainly not a gargoyle.

The lady looming in the doorway must be about Willas’ age, feminine and curvaceous with an ivory complexion and a surprisingly simple ebony coif, decked out in muslin so dark purple it nearly seems black and therefore suitable for mourning, nevertheless embroidered with filigree patterns of slate and silver thread around the edges. She does not wear any colours or other insignia of her house due to the mourning customs of the royal household, igniting Willas’ inherent curiosity. Every inch of her is regal as she approaches the group of weary travellers, dainty hands clasped in front of her body, but when she inclines her head there is a twinkle in her pale violet-blue eyes and a twitch around her voluptuous lips.

A pang of shame hits Willas as he thinks that _this_ is how he’d always imagined a princess to look like, thoroughly feminine and sophisticated; not at all like Moria who is all knees and elbows and angles and muscles and frequently mistaken for a plain bargeman’s wife when she’s not wearing finery due to her tan and her no-nonsense attitude.

“Allyria Dayne, the Lady Dondarrion, acting as Her Grace the Queen’s first lady-in-waiting in Lady Arryn’s absence,” the knight of the Kingsguard who had stepped out at her side – not Loras, Willas realises with a pang of disappointment, but a gaunt and expressionless middle-aged man he doesn’t recognise – announces gravely, kicking Willas back to reality.

“Welcome to the capital, Lord Willas, Lady Moria,” she says with a breathy but melodic voice, “The royal family is grateful that you have come to support them in their hour of grief, and I do hope you had a safe and agreeable journey despite the circumstances.”

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Dondarrion,” Willas says as they exchange bows and curtseys, “May I introduce my daughter, the Mistress Lovisa, and my good-sister, Lady Nymeria, who cares for her and acts as a companion to my lady wife.”

Nym flashes the brightest of smiles. “It just so happens we are already acquainted. Such a pleasure to see you again, my dear Ally.”

“ _Really_ , Nymeria!?” Moria hisses under her breath, accompanied by one of these sisterly eyerolls Willas always fails to interpret correctly, before she pulls herself together again. “I must say, Lady Allyria …”

“ _Lady Dondarrion._ ” Now it’s Willas’ turn to hiss under his breath. Beric Dondarrion, otherwise known as ‘the lightning lord’, is Lord of Blackhaven which makes his lady wife the _Lady Dondarrion_ and just because she happens to be old friends with her sister doesn’t give Moria the right to such a familiar address. For all that he has grown accustomed to the more casual mores of Dorne he cannot believe that she of all people – a princess raised at the Dornish court, despite her incognito – would allow herself such a lapse of protocol.

“Lady _Allyria_ ,” Moria insists, much to Willas’ mortification, “to meet a fellow Dornishwoman north of the Wyl.”

“We are few and far between, that much is sure, yet here we are.” Lady Dondarrion gives a flashing smile and motions towards the welcoming cool darkness of the marble-floored hallway. “If you’ll come with me, we have arranged for guest quarters in Maegor’s Holdfast, adjacent to your lady sister’s.”

“That is very much appreciated, Lady Allyria,” Moria smiles and there’s not a trace of impertinence in her voice nor offence in Lady Dondarrion’s. _Yet another Dornish quirk, maybe?_ “Will you take care of everything, Nym?”

“Furthermore, Her Grace the Queen is already awaiting to receive you in her royal audience,” Lady Dondarrion goes on, momentarily distracted as she watches Nym take the babe and leave with a flock of servants. Willas decides that he doesn’t actually want to know how exactly it came to pass that the two of them met and what happened when they did.

Willas clears his throat uncomfortably; even after all these years it still irks him that he has to say these much-loathed words out loud. “I’m afraid I must make you aware that I am, alas, physically unable to take a knee before Her Grace.”

Lady Dondarrion gives him a patronising smile that says _everybody in the whole realm is aware of that, poor thing._ “A bow will suffice, Lord Willas.”

Moria gracefully takes his arm as they follow Lady Dondarrion into the bowels of the keep. Spending the better part of a sennight cramped into the confines of a carriage barely larger than a hooded cart had taken its toll, his leg is aching so much he can barely disguise his dragging hobble when on good days his cane has become little more than an accessory of fashion. Leaning onto his wife for support he gives a deep sigh, only to be met with one of her concerned looks. She must feel as wretched as he does, if not worse, despite her constant claims that childbirth was natural and not a disease and that Dornishwomen were made of hardier stock … he feels guilty all of a sudden, and ever so sick of fighting.

Moria’s fingers dig sharply and meaningfully into his elbow, a look of alert concern clouds the weariness in her dark eyes. Willas lays his hand over hers, ever so gently, giving a slow and barely noticeable nod, finally relenting.

The fact that she wasn’t willing – _not yet at least_ , that’s what she’d said – to confide in his siblings had offended him tremendously. _They’re Baratheons, Will, both of them, let’s be honest,_ she had insisted every time he’d suggested to involve them – a sensible enough idea, he thought, given that both Margie and Loras were innately familiar with life at court and in good standing with the queen herself. He had been understanding of her stance, sympathetic even, when it concerned his parents and – worse yet – Granny, but his _siblings_ are an entirely different matter. They might have a hard time understanding at first – who wouldn’t? – but they would never do anything that would harm their brother or their family; they’re Margie and Loras after all and Renly might as well be one of them, having been with Loras for nearly half his life while he never much cared about either of his brothers. It’s not that he doesn’t see the dangers, that he doesn’t worry for Moria – he does, ever since that fateful evening Prince Oberyn had summoned him to his study to introduce him to what at the time had seemed like the most absurd piece of fiction he ever read – quite to the contrary, he knows they will need any and every available support, and who better to trust than his family? _That’s why you chose to wed me in the first place._

“Good,” Moria mouths tonelessly, but he has the distinct impression that this particular discussion isn’t over yet and won’t be for a long time to come.

The corridors are seemingly endless and the marble floors are treacherously slippery as they are escorted to the throneroom. The Lady Dondarrion floats before them, a silent pageboy scurrying dutifully at her side, the Kingsguard knight and two guardsmen rattle ahead and three more behind their little party. Willas would be impressed if he weren’t so in pain; he has visited the capital several times throughout his life but never has he been received with quite as much pomp and circumstance despite being the heir to a prosperous and influential constituency and good-brother to the king’s own brother at that.

The portal to the throne room is looming ahead, seemingly as tall as the corridor is long. Surprisingly enough the two heavily-adorned wings open in eerie silence.

“Are you quite alright, my love?” Willas asks tonelessly, leaning in so close that he can smell the sandalwood and cinnamon perfume on her skin.

When she squeezes his forearm her hand is cold and clammy despite the muggy heat of the city. She gives a curt nod but the way she clenches her jaw tells him that she’s anything but.

He might never understand his wife’s feelings towards the queen, he sometimes even doubts that she entirely understands them herself. Yet here they were, polite half-smiles plastered to their faces, stepping before the very woman whose youthful folly killed her parents and ended her dynasty, the very same woman who continually risked everything to save her life. No wonder her feelings were so conflicted! Willas himself, who had always found pride in his innate understanding of human nature, found the whole situation utterly inexplicable. He would need answers before long …

The herald cries out their names and the customary salutations as they step into the throne room, tearing Willas from his jumbled thoughts.

Light is flooding the room, specks of dust are dancing in the air and stained-glass windows throw colourful reflections everywhere. It’s awe-inspiring, Willas thinks, and for a moment he laments the fact that he’s never seen the throne room in its full glory and splendour, back in the day when dragon skulls still lined the throne room on either side, peeking out between the impressive marble pillars where the crowds are standing now. _Whatever happened to them_ , he wonders, despite his curious nature he never dared ask.

What might Moria be thinking and feeling, taking step after measured step at his right-hand side with her sharp chin raised in proud defiance? The long days on the road and their constant arguments had painfully reminded him that there was still a lot they didn’t know about each other, given their whirlwind courtship that preceded a marriage that was just long enough for Lovisa to be born. Willas thinks he knows his wife well enough by now to understand that it’s not castles and riches she’s seeking, but still … all of this used to be hers; then it’s been stripped of reds and blacks, now it’s devoid of dragons and full of ostentatiously prancing stags. Does she even remember her time here as a young child, when she was still truly _Princess Rhaenys_? She never said.

Approaching the dais he raises his head and takes in the scene with a deep breath. Queen Lyanna sits the Iron Throne; he remembers her as a woman of slight and slender build from their previous encounters but the massive contraption makes her look positively tiny despite her air of confidence. Two young ladies with expressionless pallid faces and hair the colour of their gowns – the princesses, he assumes, despite featuring heavily in his siblings’ letters he only met them in person once, at the occasion of Princess Alysanne’s naming ceremony – are seated to her left with a knight of the Kingsguard in resplendent white armour standing right behind them, motionless like a statue with an adorned visor obscuring his face. To her right, there’s two men and a knave-child seated in plainer chairs, faithfully guarded by another White Sword. He immediately recognises Renly Baratheon and old Jon Arryn and deduces that the boy could only be Prince Tommen, whom he’d never met in person before. _King Tommen,_ he corrects himself instinctively, and then he bites his lip. _Not King Tommen, not if Moria – if Princess Rhaenys …_ It takes all his willpower to shake off the treasonous thought that suddenly seems much more dangerous now that he’s facing the iron throne itself.

 _He doesn’t look much like a king anyway._ Prince Tommen is a pudgy knave-child of seven namedays only, squirming in his seat as boys his age are wont to do. His luscious black curls still fall freely down to his shoulders in a style – or lack thereof – that’s typically worn by very young children only, and the resplendent blacks of the mourning attire, laced with only the slightest hints of Baratheon gold, make him look smaller and paler than he probably is.

The boy’s face is screwed up in concentration as if he were trying very hard to remember what he was supposed to do. He then turns to his uncle and asks, just a bit too loudly, and his chirpy voice carries an echo he surely isn’t aware of through the enormous hall: “Who are they?”

“Lord Willas and Lady Moria of Highgarden,” Renly Baratheon hushes back, and his deep voice resonates too, “Aunt Margaery and Ser Loras’ brother and good-sister.”

The boy cocks his head aside, pouting in confusion, “But if he’s Aunt Margie and Uncle Lor’s brother, how come he’s not from Storm’s End?”

“Oh Tommen … Storm’s End is mine own seat, remember? Aunt Margaery is my lady wife and Ser Loras used to be my squire, that’s why it’s their home too.” Willas can barely suppress a chuckle but Renly is rolling his eyes, “House Tyrell’s ancestral seat is Highgarden in the Reach. Do you remember their words?”

“High as honour!” the boy cries out, beaming with pride.

By now, the crowd gathered along the sides of the hall – courtiers and members of the household, Willas assumes as he lets his gaze wander, taking in their attires and attitudes, for this isn’t the time to receive smallfolk and petty lords and their grievances in a royal audience – had taken notice of the exchange.

“That’s the Arryn words, the Tyrells are ‘growing strong’,” Renly sighs before he motions the boy to silence, his embarrassment tangible.

Willas cannot help but smile. Renly had always been good with children, he remembers many an occasion when a dozen cousins of all ages were tumbling all over him – little Tyrells and Hightowers and Redwynes and Fossoways – and he gladly indulged them time and time again, stepping in to be their heroic knight or their deadliest foe or even their faithful mount, despite not being related by blood – and how he would scowl when Loras would come to lure him away for more adult activities like feasting or hawking. Renly would make a fantastic father one day, being half a child himself, Willas thinks, and the implication alone pains him more than he cares to admit.

The Queen rises, swiftly and elegantly, and so does everyone else, only the prince needs some encouragement in doing so. They descend from the dais, the Queen a step ahead of her children, and where the Queen and the princesses move with a delicate smoothness the prince is all but waddling down the steps.

Moria falls into a deep curtsy and Willas bows, leaning onto his cane and awkwardly staring at the tips of his boots as he awaits the graceful back of the Queen’s hand to appear in his sight for an insinuated kiss as courtly protocol dictates. He goes through the motions he’s internalised since childhood, detached and dispassionately; _who doesn’t?_

When he straightens up again, well-practised words of condolence and gratitude tumbling from his lips, he finds himself surprised to see the Queen smiling with sparkling silver-grey eyes surrounded by some tell-tale dancing crow’s feet.

“Congratulations on your daughter,” she says warmly, and something in her whole demeanour reminds Willas of his own mother who was beaming and gushing with pride when presented with her newest grandchild – _but that couldn’t be, could it now?_ “Even in the midst of grief it is a consolation to know that life goes on and strong houses persevere. May the Seven bless her to grow up to be as beautiful as her lady mother and as capable as her lord father.”

Somewhere in the crowd someone pointedly clears their throat; everyone pretends not to notice. The Queen though would never stoop so low as to make a jab at Moria’s heritage – or lack thereof, as far as everyone is concerned – yet he understands the veiled meaning of her carefully chosen words. Her gracious smile cannot fully erase the sadness in her eyes when she takes Moria’s hands in hers; a gesture full of motherly kindness that makes Moria tense up nevertheless.

 _Could it be that she’s disappointed_ _that_ _it’s not a boy, considering_ _her plans and plots_ _…?_ Willas’ gaze inadvertently goes to the prince who is fidgeting awkwardly, but he wills the thought away almost immediately. It seems way too cynical when the Queen smiles so genuinely and Moria gives a bright and unflinching and utterly fake smile of her own.

“You are cordially invited to dine with us tonight,” the Queen says, “it will be a small and intimate family affair of course, given the circumstances, but only appropriate given that our houses are so close and intertwined. Lady Dondarrion shall inform you about the details.”

“An honour, Your Grace,” Willas replies dutifully.

“A pleasure,” Moria adds, her voice sounding more shaky than usual.

“Then that’s settled.” The Queen’s nod is dismissive, albeit kind and pleased enough. “I shall grant Lord Renly and Ser Loras leave for the rest of the afternoon, assuming that you would appreciate some time to catch up with your nearest and dearest.”

Only then does Willas realise that the sentinel standing guard behind the charming princesses is in fact his brother. He looks so strange in his white armour, even more so because time and time again it takes some effort to remember that he’s no longer the little boy he remembers so fondly. It takes even more effort not to rush up to him and pull him into a fierce embrace, but that would have to wait.

“Her Grace is too kind,” Renly says loudly with an ingenious smirk on his lips that’s directed towards Willas, and then they’re dismissed.

“Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Dragonstone, and Cersei Lannister, the Lady Baratheon of Dragonstone,” the herald announces, tapping his staff on the floor, as they exit the room following Loras through a side-entrance that falls shut with a thump before the next guests of honour arrive.

“If you’re thinking of making a big display of emotion in the hallway, I won’t have it,” Loras declares while Willas is still too nonplussed to speak.

“And don’t tell him he’s grown if you value your manhood,” Renly adds with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Grabbing his wife’s hand instead of his brothers’ Willas can’t help but laugh. “Moria, darling, meet my brother and good-brother.”

“I’m the good one, he’s the brother,” Renly jests, earning himself a fondly annoyed chuff from Loras as he proceeds to kiss Moria’s hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lady.”

“So sorry we missed the wedding,” Loras adds, and Willas is glad that his tone is good-natured enough. He’d become so used to Granny’s constant snide remarks that he always feels defensive when it comes to their marriage.

“It was a rather small affair, it wouldn’t have been worth the trip all the way to Dorne I’m afraid,” Moria says modestly, smiling openly at Loras when he kisses her hand, “I’ve heard so much about you, Ser Loras, and you, Lord Renly. I only wish we had met under less tragic circumstances.”

“Oh, none of that lord and ser business!” Renly insists, “You shall call us by our names, given that we’re family now.”

Willas wants to hug Renly for his open gesture of acceptance. He cannot fathom how awkward it must be for Moria to address his father ‘my lord’ and his grandmother ‘Lady Olenna’ when Leonette Fossoway calls them Papa and Granny and has been allowed to do so from the day she wed Garlan.

“Can you walk, Will?” Loras inquires, “Because Margie’s waiting for us and …”

“Lead the way.”

The maze of corridors leading through the Red Keep and up to the royal apartments within Maegor’s Holdfast are seemingly endless and yet it seems like only moments have passed until they’re tumbling through a door and into privacy, embracing ferociously in the midst of giddy tears and laughter.

Willas crashes a tooth against the epaulettes of Loras’ shining white-knight armour when someone – Renly, probably – pulls him in for one more hug, yet the joy of being reunited at long last overwhelms the pain by far.

“I thought you’d never come!” Margie cries, kissing Willas’ stubbly cheek once again before she turns to Moria, gushing: “Oh you poor dear! My big brother is such a careless dolt sometimes. I’m not saying I’m not glad to see you because I am, I’ve heard so much about you that I believe I know you already and I do hope we shall be such good friends! But, Will, you really should have encouraged Papa to come instead of shooing a new mother and her babe halfway around the world just to …”

“It’s hardly halfway around the world, Lady Margaery,” Moria puts in gently but firmly, and Willas knows that the _‘_ _With all due respect, we Dornishwomen are made of sterner stuff’_ lecture is immediately to follow.

“ _Margie_ , please,” Margie insists with a pout that Willas finds annoyingly endearing, “we’re _sisters_ now, remember?”

Moria flashes her a smile that is as kindly as it is forced, she seems overwhelmed all of a sudden despite having grown up in the hustle and bustle of eight sisters and even more cousins and other children fostered in the Water Gardens of Dorne.

“Talking about sisters,” Margie goes on relentlessly, “I do hope you’re not offended that I’ve taken the liberty to call for your own sister and the babe … I simply couldn’t contain my curiosity I’m afraid, and isn’t she precious!”

A single hand rises up from behind a plush cushioned chaise in an alcove by a window, waving to all of them in a motion that is supposed to mean _shut up, she’s_ _finally_ _asleep_. The father in Willas ascertains the threat before the brother in him can pity Margie for her obvious longing for a child and family life.

“Everyone sends their love,” he puts in quietly before anyone – least of all her boisterous uncles – can wake sweet little Lovisa, “Papa and Garlan will be coming for the tourney and the coronation, together with anyone who might want to compete.”

“And Mama will be making sure that you’ll still have something to inherit by the time this charade is over?” Loras puts in dryly, earning himself a swat to the back of his head from Renly.

“The cynicism of court and capital still doesn’t suit you, my love,” Renly admonishes.

He has a point there, Willas thinks.

“How have you been?” he asks then, “Since …” He pauses then, remembering something Loras said years ago. “Can we talk freely here?”

At his side, Moria tenses once again, as if she were anticipating that Willas give away her secret without her explicit consent.

Margie gives a very unladylike chortle. “Go on. There’s no one in all of the Seven Kingdoms better at maintaining privacy than these two.”

It’s a curious sight watching Renly help Loras divest himself of his armour; tiny, tender gestures that tell a story of innate familiarity and a deeply intimate bond that had only strengthened over the years, nothing like the headless throes of passion and insanity Willas had imagined when he first realised what was going on between his little brother and his erstwhile lord.

“We’re coping,” Renly says sombrely, nonchalantly resting his hand at the nape of Loras’ neck and making massaging motions with his thumb, “it’s hard on the children, but mostly hard work for us.”

Willas finds himself taken aback. He had known of course that the Baratheon family dynamics are vastly different from the tight-knit Tyrell clan, that their relationship had always been a strained one, but this level of indifference shocks him. “With all due respect, Renly, but he was your brother …”

“I’m closer to you and Garlan than I’ve ever been to him or …” When Renly flinches, obviously unwilling to say Stannis’ name, Loras’ hand goes up to cover his in silent support. “Believe me when I say that I’m mostly annoyed at him for being reckless and stupid and drunk enough to get himself killed – by a pig no less, a fucking _pig_ , now isn’t that poetic justice?– and leave us behind with all this mess!”

It’s blatantly obvious that Renly is hurting, despite all his assurances to the contrary. Willas’ heart goes out to him – he could not imagine losing any of his siblings so suddenly and tragically. Loras’ eyes are full of concern as he takes a step closer, placing a gentle hand on Renly’s shoulder but Margie pointedly clears her throat.

“ _Husband_ _mine_. We have _guests_.”

Moria’s jaw clenches once again, she takes a trembling breath before she speaks up. “Worry not, my dear Lady Margaery,” she says coolly, “Baseborn and a foreigner I may be, but I have grown up at the court of Sunspear as a companion and confidante to my cousin, the future Ruling Princess of Dorne. I know full well that, more often than not, all that glimmers is not gold.” She gives an understanding smile. “Also, we’re _sisters_ now, aren’t we?” she adds, paraphrasing Margie’s gushing enthusiasm, “I would so wish that in time you would come to trust me as you trust my beloved husband.”

“We don’t keep any secrets between the two of us,” Willas finds himself adding, “so …”

Margie twitches her lip in that half-tutting, half-scowling way that never ceases to annoy Willas. Loras, finally free of his armour, cracks his shoulders back and sits, procuring a carafe of wine from an artful rosewood cabinet next to the couch. Renly slumps down by his side, motioning his guests to make themselves comfortable. A wince escapes Willas as he lowers himself onto the soft cushions on the sofa, relieved to finally take the weight off his aching leg.

“What are you planning to do?” Willas asks, gratefully taking a chalice of wine that might help dull the pain for now, “What can we do to help?”

“I don’t think there is much anyone can do,” Loras says with a deep sigh, “Don’t get me wrong now, Tommen is a darling boy and I love him dearly, we all do, but … that’s the problem, he’s a darling boy, not a king.”

Moria grabs Willas’ hand, her eyes go wide. If anyone but Willas notices, he hopes that they would ascribe it to initial shock at hearing such casually disrespectful comments about a member of the royal family.

“But he’s still so young,” Willas puts in diplomatically, “he will grow into his role, don’t you think?”

“The problem isn’t that he’s young, the problem is that he’s, well, a little slow sometimes,” Renly says, echoing his lover’s sigh, “you’ve witnessed how he behaved in court earlier. You probably found it droll and charming, but …”

“What did he do this time?” Margie asks immediately.

While Loras and Renly recount the events from the royal audience, Nym silently places the still-sleeping babe into Moria’s hands and excuses herself, allowing them some family time without yet another outsider they can’t trust. Sometimes Willas wants to hug Nym for her perceptiveness – and yet he knows that Moria will tell her everything before long.

“Doesn’t His Grace have teachers and advisers, to guide His Grace until he’s old enough to rule in his own right?” Moria asks innocently when Margie is done rolling her eyes at her bumbling nephew’s antics.

“Of course he has, and they’re already doing their best, but all the tutoring in the world cannot change a man’s nature. A king has to be smart or strong, preferably both, alas Tommen is neither.”

Renly shrugs, taking another sip of wine, and when Loras picks up his train of thought Willas cannot help but think how much the two remind him of his own parents sometimes, so in tune with each other that they finish each other’s sentences.

“He’s not made for reading and learning, that much is sure, still struggling with the most basic numbers and letters. Now that’s a Baratheon trait if there ever was one – _ouch!_ Cut it out, my love, you know I speak the truth! Thing is, he’s not made to be a good fighter either.”

“Not everyone can be a prodigy of your calibre, Loras,” Willas comments, smirking kindly.

“I’m not saying he has to be … only the late king wanted to mould his son in his image, forcefully so, and now the poor thing is terrified of the training courtyard and the armoury, much like Renly used to be back in the day before we met.” Loras gives a wan smile, placing his palm onto Renly’s thigh. “It took me what – a year and a half at least to get you to spar with me just for fun?”

“When I asked Tommen if he’s looking forward to being king he just stared at me with these big blue eyes of his and said: ‘Auntie, does that mean I’ll have to go hunting all the time?’” Margie puts in, her voice full of pity and sorrow, “That’s all his royal father ever did after all. I tried to explain what kings are supposed to do, but to no avail.”

“Dear gods …” Willas mutters.

“What makes it worse is that his main advisors will be a woman and an octogenarian,” Renly states gravely, “power-hungry sycophants will come crawling before long, and … I’m worried, Will, I truly am. Robert wasn’t the paragon of a good king either, but he at least had the agency to keep the likes of our charming brother and his cunning good-father and their ilk at arm’s length. With Tommen …”

Willas clears his throat uncomfortably. This conversation is rapidly spiralling out of control, and yet he can feel Moria’s gaze urging him to ask more questions, to gather as much intelligence as possible, and it makes him feel like a dirty double-agent instead of a brother eager to catch up with his siblings’ lives. “So are you saying you wouldn’t trust the Queen to …?”

“The problem isn’t that she’s untrustworthy, the problem is that she lays way too much trust in her only son. Lyanna is too naive and refuses to see Tommen’s shortcomings, and she believes he’ll have all the time in the world to outgrow that. I assume that’s what motherhood does to you … no offence, dear Moria.”

“None taken.” Moria smiles at her good-brother before she looks down at their daughter, gently brushing over her little but already prominent Martell nose, and when she notices Margie’s longing stare she hands the bundle over without hesitation, whispering “Do you want to meet your Aunt Margie, my sweet? But don’t tell Auntie Nym if she becomes your favourite aunt, alright?”

 _It’s heartwarming_ , Willas thinks, and then it hits him. _It’s strategy! By the Seven, Rhae!_

Margie smiles as bright as a dewdrop on the first rose of spring as she cradles her niece in her arms, promptly forgetting the world around her, and Willas can’t help but feel sorry for her. He pushes the thought aside, knowing that there are more important matters at hand and the state of his siblings’ marriage was a topic best saved for another time.

“She’ll need support,” Renly says, “What say you, Will? Can your lord father support us – support her – enough to keep the boy safe and not make him a puppet in someone’s ludicrous scheme?”

Willas can feel Moria stiffen at his side. He puts a calming hand upon hers before he answers cautiously. “I suppose so …”

“I told you so,” Loras cries, but his mouth snaps shut when his niece gives a squirming wail.

“Rest assured we have the coin. Only our father respects power more than anything, that might pose a problem in the long run. Isn’t there any alternative?”

 _There, I said it_ , Willas thinks, throwing all caution into the wind. He feels sick to his stomach all of a sudden.

“The only feasible alternative is entirely unpalatable …” A sense of doom is ringing in Renly’s voice now. “I’m not meaning to be petty, but I’m not naive either. If it were only my brother …”

“He did go out of his way to save your life back then,” Loras says flatly, addressing the elephant in the room that makes all three Tyrells guiltily bite their upper lips.

It’s entirely too easy to forget that Tyrell forces had besieged Storm’s End for months during Robert’s Rebellion and that one Renly Baratheon had been on the other side and entirely too emaciated to walk when the war was won and the siege was lifted. Having Loras sent to Storm’s End to squire for Renly had initially been meant as a punishment, Willas is certain of that at least,, although for whom he could not say, and nobody – least of all King Robert – could have anticipated how that would turn out in the end, a paradox if there ever was one. Willas can’t help but wonder how Renly is even able to bear it – not Loras of course, or Margie for that matter, because children often rise above the misdeeds of their forebears, but exchanging pleasantries with Mace Tyrell over dinner and serving on the small council with Paxter Redwyne, the very men who have been responsible for so much suffering at such an early age. Renly is a resilient one, that much is sure.

“It’s the bloody lions in general and the crazy bitch’s crazy witch in particular,” Renly says, purposefully ignoring the morose atmosphere in the room, “That rules Stannis out as an alternative. Believe me, we do not want this.”

“What about … Princess Cassana?” Moria puts in carefully, “She seems … bright enough.”

“Would that we were in Dorne, sweet sister!” Renly exclaims, “Would that we were.”

Renly’s booming voice is finally enough to wake little Lovisa who had been peacefully sleeping rocked in Aunt Margie’s arms. Now she’s screeching in protest like a very cranky young dragon, and Renly looks crestfallen.

“Gods! Look at her! She has purple eyes!” Margie is stating the obvious as she’s cooing down at her niece.

“I have some Dayne blood, or so I’m told,” Moria says without blinking or even blushing, reaching over to take her daughter for calming, “A great-great-grandmother or something, I believe. It’s a family trait.”

Willas has to turn away to suppress his incredulous guffaw, and he nearly fails when his eyes accidentally meet his wife’s. _Insufferable, cunning woman!_ It’s not even a lie, she _has_ some Dayne blood: Dyanna Dayne, the Queen Who Never Was, wife to Maekar I and mother to Aegon the Unlikely who happens to be her great-great-grandfather. Being an avid breeder of hounds and horses, Willas knows that a single ancestor six generations ago could never be enough to have such a rare trait miraculously re-appear somewhere down the line; thankfully his siblings are oblivious to this fact.

“Oh,” is all that Margie has to say. Caring and accepting she might be, but it’s blatantly obvious that Moria’s bastard status still rankles.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Moria asks nobody in particular, and she doesn’t wait for an answer before she pulls her bodice aside to nurse the babe. Nobody minds, or so it seems, because the incessant wailing and screeching ceases immediately.

“Did you have to leave your wet-nurse behind at Highgarden?” Margie gasps incredulously, “Oh Will, how could you?!”

“It’s perfectly alright, my dear,” Moria says before Willas can even respond, “in Dorne only those who aren’t physically able to produce enough milk to sustain their babes use a wet-nurse’s services. Your lady mother was pretty scandalised too, if you don’t mind me saying, but even the Princess Elia nursed her royal children herself so why shouldn’t I?”

Willas cringes inwardly at the impromptu mention of Moria’s mother, and Lovisa greedily smacks her lips at Moria’s bosom as if to make a point.

“Now pray tell, how’s Garlan?” Loras asks, uncomfortably clearing his throat.

“Ask him yourself when he arrives, in a fortnight or so,” Willas grins, relieved at the change of subject, “he’s been at Brightwater for the last couple of months … you should know how useless he is at writing letters!”

Margie giggles and Willas finds himself relieved that the conversation has taken a turn away from the incriminating and towards the more mundane. He pours himself some more wine and starts sharing news and gossip from home, but his eyes never leave his wife and his daughter.


	10. Lyanna III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna has to face the ghosts of the past - and the Dragonstone Baratheons who have just arrived at court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long and unexplained absence, my dear readers! Since I posted the last chapter I have been out of the country for a couple of weeks to deal with urgent family matters and upon my return I have started a new job that has me cramming for a harrowing exam at the end of the month. I’m a procrastinator by nature, a person who’s easily distracted by fandom and laundry and whatnot, so I chose to ignore notifications and my “fandom” email which isn’t even synchronised with my regular mailbox for exactly that reason. I’ll make sure to get back to your comments – each and every one is very much appreciated – as soon as I can spare some time. Thank you so much for your concern, but it wasn’t negative feedback that scared me away, just the trials and tribulations of adult life.
> 
> That said, I’ve skimmed over the discussions that have unfolded in the comments … and to be honest, I agree with a lot of the points that have been made – even some of those that could’ve been worded a bit more diplomatically –, even if that might not be evident from my writing at this point (BTW: thank you, dearest Ketch, for being my champion in my absence! I owe you – and you’ll get a long e-mail from me shortly!). We have a lot of Lyanna and her supporters’ chapters right now, and of course their points of view are biased. Doesn’t necessarily mean that I agree with them, or that this is the ultimate truth – that’s what you get from a limited third-person point of view is all. Over the course of the story I’m planning to introduce more diverse viewpoints and “antagonists” (for lack of a better word), but please be patient, I’m aiming for a rather slow build. Feel free to criticise Lyanna all you want, but do keep in mind that she’s not the hero of this story (and neither is Rhaegar, this will become evident as the story unfolds) and I’m not stupid or deluded because I’m telling the story mainly from her point of view right now for narrative purposes. Bear with me, try to suspend your disbelief (I remember loving certain characters when I first met them and hating them when I re-read/re-watched the series when I knew so much more!), or maybe find something else to read if you really hate my story and think I'm a terrible writer.
> 
> That said – here’s another chapter. Yes, it’s Lyanna again and no, it’s not objective at all nor should it be. Hope you enjoy it nevertheless, and if it makes you want to slap her against a wall I’ll scream in glee because that’s exactly what I wanted to achieve. Haha.
> 
> Also, thanks to Ketch for betaing this chapter before I fell off the planet. I do hope I did your ever-helpful comments justice, and I hope I found a voice for you-know-who – posting this on a whim now, feel free to yell at me later because I got them wrong after all. ;)

The Queen’s mask of detached poise and aloofness is firmly in place; she's wearing the very face that is stamped onto the silver stag coins in profile, imperious and immortal. Lyanna Stark on the other hand is struggling to breathe while a fire is roaring and raging within her. Her knuckles go white as she clutches the sides of the throne that has never cut her once – _armrests_ , one might call them, but she is of the firm conviction that a throne, the Iron Throne, this fickle edifice that had taken and given everything she ever cared for least of all, is no place for rest – as she sits back, purposefully concentrating on tilting her feet and straightening her shoulders instead of emotions she cannot control and does not wish to experience.

It is as if the world had come to an abrupt halt the very moment the party from Highgarden had crossed the threshold to the Great Hall. The courtiers had frozen in time, their voices had faded away, the advisors and guards surrounding her on the dais had ceased to exist together with her children even. Everything seemed blurred and painfully slow all of a sudden, everything except the accelerated beat of her own heart thrumming in her chest and roaring in her mind, the very heart that was being pierced by metaphorical Valyrian steel over and over and over again.

She found herself utterly mesmerised, unable to avert her gaze or even to blink, as the erstwhile princess traversed the Great Hall approaching the dais. She could see beyond the simplicity of her coif with muddy curls falling all the way down her back from a braided bun, beyond the obviously hastily acquired black gown, old-fashioned and ill-fitting as it was though the colour didn’t make her appear quite as pale and sickly as most ladies thanks to her natural olive complexion, beyond her body that was obviously worn-out from pregnancy, childbirth and travel, making her movements less than graceful. Yet there was an unconventional and therefore unobtrusive beauty in her sharp features, fuelled by an air of confidence and defiance; there was raw elegance in her posture and intelligence in her sparkling midnight eyes. How anyone with half a mind could fall for the bastard charade when she was so obviously regal eluded her.

Ridiculously enough her first coherent thought had been _How could Oberyn bear it, facing her every day when she looks so much like her mother?_

It couldn't have been worse had she grown up to look like a spitting image of her father, but she hadn't. It’s not like she’d never noticed the similarities, albeit she might have purposefully tried to ignore them, but that has finally become impossible. The last time they'd met in person she had been only fourteen, little more than a girl at the cusp of womanhood with a lot of growing up to do, and now she’s one-and-twenty, a scant three years younger than her mother had been when she knew her.

Rhaenys Targaryen is all Elia, a little taller and a little fleshier, maybe even a little fiercer, but Elia through and through, down to the witty half-smile on her lips and the husky staccato of her accented voice. Elia Nymeros Martell, daughter and princess of Dorne, just how she remembers her so vividly even after all these years, come to life again.

Never had she ever felt so utterly helpless, for all that she should have become more adept at living this lie by now, if not for her sake then for her children’s. Never had she ever been so glad of the rigid confines of courtly protocol, a strict routine she had internalised so well over the course of the years that she can follow it without thinking even when she’s flailing.

“Your Grace,” she hears a low voice saying through the haze of her emotions, accompanied by an intense harrumph that probably wasn’t the first. Jon Arryn, of course, of course.

 _Pull yourself together, Lyanna!_ She rises again, probably a little less graceful than usual because she’s still shaking. She finds herself facing the next nightmare of this day that had been too long already even though the sun had barely passed its zenith.

The sight of the party of Dragonstone Baratheons is sobering enough to push all nostalgic thoughts and all emotional turmoil aside. Rhaenys Targaryen had already left, together with the rest of the Highgarden vanguard, there was nothing she could do but wonder and go back to performing her royal duties.

“Stannis,” she says bluntly, holding her hand out for her dour-faced good-brother to kiss, and then an equally simple “Cersei,” to the repulsive woman at his side.

She cannot help but wonder how many of the people in attendance, listening aptly to every word that is said and always vying for some salacious gossip, might take the lack of formality as an endearing sign of familiarity instead of what it is intended to be. There was no love lost here, and she knows with certainty that the feeling is mutual.

She takes a deep breath and gives a silent gesture with the fingers of her right hand, motioning them to rise. From the corner of her eye she catches poor little Shireen’s lopsided grin and a small part of her – the very part that’s still wild and wilful Lyanna Stark, daughter of Winterfell, the girl who held nothing but contempt for fake courtly mannerisms – wishes she were free to embrace her beloved nieces like every aunt should. Instead she stands ramrod straight, gauging the too-large and too-ostentatious Dragonstone party. _Cersei must have finally gained the upper hand since they were banished to the island that never should have been theirs_ , she thinks with contempt, _Stannis is too frugal for such frippery and for all that he never cared much for Robert, he’s too proper and more importantly too unsubtle to assert his position like this. If it weren’t for Tywin and the sheer abundance of Casterly’s mines and Westerlands wealth …_

All of a sudden it’s not Jon Arryn’s warning voice she’s hearing in her mind but Rhaegar’s. It’s the year of ‘81 again, the year of the false spring, and they’re planning to overthrow a different king until she wills the thought away. Back then, Stannis had been the least of their concerns and Cersei only a minor annoyance, but now the tides have turned for good … or for the worst, she can’t be quite sure yet.

For a moment she wishes Rhaegar were here with her, by her side as he was meant to be, but then she immediately dismisses the thought. _If he were, if he were still here, I wouldn’t be here. This is not what we had planned, this is what happened, and I’ll have to make the best of it. I need to be better than Rhaegar ever was. For him, for the children, for the realm._

She gives a courteous smile even though she wants to roll her eyes in annoyance at Cersei’s desperate attempt at displaying whatever power she thought she might have. Bringing an entourage of two dozen before the throne for a mere greeting that didn’t even qualify as a proper audience was simply unnecessary, unless of course you had a point to make – the point being that it was Lannister men first and foremost, with Ser Davos Seaworth, Stannis’ loyal shadow, and his squire, probably yet another one of Ser Davos’ many sons, being the only obvious exception. Subtlety had never been her good-sister’s forte after all.

Lyanna cannot decide whether to laugh at the implication or tremble in fear as she observes, silently counting. Half a score of men with lion’s heads on the pommels of their swords and fine golden armour forged in the style of the Westerlands despite wearing the Baratheon sigil pinned to their cloaks guarding Cersei and the children. Three ladies and four more young girls with obvious Lannister looks, albeit much less striking than Cersei herself, a small army of ladies-in-waiting, governesses, companions and handmaidens. And then, standing to the side, there’s the most glaring act of defiance against protocol, a woman clad in resplendent red robes when everyone is supposed to wear mourning garb. That must be the foreign priestess she’d heard so much about, the very same some dare to call _the red bitch’s red witch_ in hushed voices. She does not deign to incline her head or avert her gaze at least, she stares right back at the Queen with a scrutinising expression on her pale face. Lyanna shudders. The woman has an eerie aura that can only be surpassed by young Joffrey’s vicious sneer.

“My Queen,” Stannis says abruptly without clearing his throat first, “I have come to offer condolences on behalf of House Baratheon of Dragonstone.”

“You have lost your brother, Lord Stannis, where I have lost my husband and the father of my children. The realm has lost its king.” Her wording is careful and restrained, despite still feeling rather dazed from the earlier encounter. She had been putting a lot of thought into what to say; with Stannis it was always better to be safe than sorry. “I presume you and yours wish to pay your respects.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and before Stannis can do anything but nod mutely she has already summoned Lord Arryn and Lady Dondarrion with but a wave of her hand.

“We have been perched on that ghastly ship for days, surely the dead can wait?” Cersei mutters as if to herself yet loud enough for everyone in close proximity to hear.

If there is one single trait Lyanna had always admired her good-brother for it was his silently scathing glare that had often proven to be more effective than an eloquent argument or a loud voice or even Valyrian steel. If someone told her that people dropped dead on the spot and the sea froze over due to one look from Stannis Baratheon’s steely, ever-disdainful eyes, she would have believed it without doubt.

Cersei though, she doesn’t even flinch. Her cat-like eyes, green as wildfire, are haughtily scanning the room and if she finds herself disappointed that her twin brother isn’t on duty she doesn’t let it show. Her whole body-language reeks of arrogance and domination; she holds herself as if she belonged here and genuflecting before the throne were way below her.

 _Odious woman._ Lyanna pulls her shoulders back, straightening herself before she brushes past Cersei as she elegantly steps off the dais, waiting for her family and the courtiers to follow suit.

They fall into rank and file with the seemingly effortlessness of a routine that is as strict as it is well-rehearsed; not even the absence of the king is causing any disruption, he had after all been absent often enough while he was still alive to make that routine too.

Lyanna leads the way of course, preceded only by Ser Mandon of the Kingsguard and two palace guards. In the absence of the monarch her eldest child is bestowed the honour to walk with her. Sansa, darling Sansa, doesn’t let her guard drop, not even for a moment, but she does squeeze her hand when she courteously takes the Queen’s arm as protocol dictates. It’s reassuring – but then again, it’s unsettling to think that one might crave reassurance from one’s own child who has only barely flowered.

The Hand of the King and the Crown Prince take second position in the procession. Lyanna can feel Tommen squirm right behind her and she can hear Lord Arryn’s laboured breathing that can barely contain his annoyance with his royal charge who is so clearly lacking everything the old man had expected to see in a son of his own dearly beloved foster-son.

“Why can’t Cousin Shireen and Robin walk with us, Lord Jon?”

Tommen is whining, a high-pitched mewl just above a whisper. Lyanna is mortified. If it had been only them, or any other visitor for that matter, she probably wouldn’t have minded so much; her son’s conduct or lack thereof would have been regarded as charming, if a little puerile, antics – but with Stannis and Cersei present? There was no room for failure here. _Have I been to lenient with him? Could he have done better had I not indulged my little boy all these years?_ she thinks, for all that this isn’t the right time nor place for self-doubt, and then: _Am I truly doing the right thing, or is this yet another maternal indulgence?_

“ _Your Grace!_ ” Lord Arryn hisses under his breath. This is not the right place nor time for long-winded lectures on courtly protocol that must be burning on the Hand’s tongue; lectures Tommen wouldn’t even begin to understand, lessons he would dream his way through yet again.

Tommen doesn’t get the hint. “But I want …”

Lyanna is terribly grateful when Sansa turns ever so slightly and hisses “ _Behave!_ ”, gracing her little brother with a trademark Baratheon glare that makes his mouth snap shut immediately, saving her the indignity of having to breach protocol. She finds herself equally glad that there are two more rows of people – first Alys with Lady Dondarrion, followed by two guardsmen of the royal escort – separating Tommen from the Dragonstone party. She can only pray that neither Stannis nor Cersei have overheard the embarrassing interaction.

Traversing the Great Hall and passing the spot where her father burned to death seventeen years earlier a thought hits Lyanna straight in the gut. _I was just like him when I was young. For entirely different reasons, but just as humiliating for my poor lord father and everyone who cared for me then._ She realises now that it’s nothing short of a miracle that she is where she is, that it’s despite and not because of her behaviour and her former reputation. She cannot help but squeeze Sansa’s arm, a gesture of appreciation for the one child of hers who has never been particularly difficult or troublesome.

The procession toward the Red Keep’s royal sept moves painfully slow, as a royal procession should. It usually bores Lyanna, who prefers a fast-paced and targeted gait privately, to tears; today, it leaves her too much time to fret and worry. By the time they have reached the main courtyard her mind has conjured seven scenarios of how Stannis and Cersei might usurp the throne and seven more of how they would conspire to assassinate all her children – save Tommen, maybe, for they would need poor, innocent Tommen to back their claim – as soon as the truth was out in the open.

They have just passed Maegor’s Holdfast as a clear baritone calls out, bringing the procession to a startled halt.

“Brother! Oh Brother! My sincerest apologies for not being there to meet you!”

Lyanna can suppress the urge to roll her eyes only barely. _Trust Renly to make a big song and dance! Better put on a mournful face and fast, lest you overdo it._

“Whatever’s the matter with him?” Sansa whispers, leaning in, “I always thought he couldn’t stand Uncle Stannis …”

“That’s _exactly_ the point, sweetling,” Lyanna whispers back, stifling a chuckle as she watches the scene unfold with a diabolic sense of glee simmering in her belly.

Renly moves to embrace Stannis, who is quite obviously too perplexed to do anything but endure stoically despite seeming very much like a fish out of water, all the while waxing poetic about the brother they had lost and how this tragedy would bring the house closer together. _He’s good_ , Lyanna has to acknowledge, though not without a trace of annoyance, _he’s wicked good._ Margaery is fluttering at his side, radiant in her smiles and overbearing in her concern, lacing her arm through Cersei’s and calling her _sweet sister_. It is equally painful and glorious to watch.

“Let bygones be bygones, brother mine,” Renly gushes, all but batting his eyelashes, “we Baratheons will have to stick together now, for the good of the Realm!”

“How presumptuous of you to assume to know what’s best for the Realm,” Stannis retorts icily.

“Well, considering that our dear late brother chose to banish you, not me …” Renly quips, undeterred by the venomous glare his elder brother and his good-sister shoot him in the pregnant pause he chose to make, “I’m merely extending an olive branch, metaphorically speaking.”

“A _Dornish_ metaphor,” Stannis – one of the the most educated and well-read lords in all of the Seven kingdoms, Lyanna knows, save for Oberyn Martell, Willas Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister _and Rhaegar, if only he were alive –_ snarls, “If you knew our brother at all …”  

“The times are changing, even Robert knew as much – and before you ask, I know because he told me.”

 _Enough! S_ he decides to put an end to the spectacle before they can tear each other’s throats out, before poor Lord Arryn with all his less-than-subtle coughing may die of apoplexy, motioning to the attendants standing to the side to get the procession under way again.

Stannis grits his teeth, Cersei rolls her eyes dramatically, Renly shoots her a triumphant smirk that makes her want to slap him silly as if he were a lordling od nine namedays still, and then everyone falls back into rank and file again, making way towards the royal sept. These coming days would be immensely trying, she thinks, trying to ignore the cold sense of dread pooling in her belly.

And then she cannot think any more. As soon as the portal to the sept is opened the stench is overwhelming. The sound of stifled gasps and retching echoes through the arcades of the hallway, several people in the retinue involuntarily start coughing. Lyanna presses a perfumed kerchief to her nose; she doesn’t even have to pretend to dab away tears this time, only the tears aren’t caused by grief but by her eyes burning from the side effects of death.

It’s not so much the smell of a dead body that must have started to decompose by now, it’s the Silent Sisters’ efforts to quench the stench of decay by filling the sept with fragrant flowers galore and burning every kind of incense in their arsenal.

“Bah! Stinks!” Tommen comments as they line up along the royal pew.

Alys, just as green around the nose as her little brother is, giggles helplessly. Sansa shoots them both a silent warning glare before she resorts to the pose of perfect princess once again. Lord Arryn looks like he might have a stroke any minute now.

Lyanna takes a measured step forward, trying not to look at her late husband’s corpse laid out in front of the altar. As she kneels she wonders once again about these strange customs she doesn’t understand even after having spent half her life in the South. Even in the North where it’s chilly even at the height of summer people rush to bury their dead before their bodies rot away or beasts can get to them and when the frozen ground is too hard to allow for a proper grave to be dug the caskets are temporarily stored in frigid and secluded conditions deep within crypts and cellars until spring comes, yet here where winters are stifling and sultry the dead are laid out in the open for a sennight before they’re finally set to rest. Seven days and seven nights to ensure seven blessings by the seven faces of the New Gods, and that time doubles for a monarch. It’s because a king deserves twice the blessings a lord does, and so much more than a mere commoner who has to make it from the deathbed or wherever the Stranger saw it fit to take the poor sod to the grave in a scant seven _hours_ , the septon had explained. Lyanna cannot help but think that the actual reason is for the majority of lords to make it to the capital in time for the royal funeral. It’s only the ninth day after Robert’s fool accident, the eighth since his death, and only now do the envoys from the major houses outside the Crownlands proper start to trickle in.

Having to return to the sept thrice a day to pray for the deceased is a special form of torture. Mourning so intensely, even if it’s only an act for the most part, yet another ritual to appease the public, has brought emotions to light that she hadn’t even been aware of having. Kneeling motionlessly at Robert’s side she has too much time to think – and maybe, just maybe, thinking is something akin to praying? – and her mind conjures memories of better times before her mind invariably wanders to what could have, what should have been had Robert been defeated not by a boar but by a dragon some two decades earlier.

Her traitorous thoughts are interrupted by the squeaking of well-oiled leather soles upon the marbled floor. She barely raises her head, barely acknowledging Stannis taking a knee right next to her.

The Most Devout chant monotonous incantations that still feel so alien to Lyanna after all these years that they could very well have been High Valyrian or some other foreign language. Pretending to follow the Faith of the Seven as was expected of a queen and consort to the Defender of the Faith, was very much a mummer’s show. She closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength, before she returns to doing what she always does during a religious service: observing the people around her from the corner of her eye under the disguise of a bowed head.

She startles when she realises that one Stannis Baratheon, kneeling by her side, is doing exactly the same, only less covertly so. When their eyes meet, he doesn’t startle, but he does avert his gaze to stare straight ahead at his brother’s bloated, distorted corpse.

“Stannis,” she says, barely above a whisper, and she doesn’t know why. All of a sudden, her own voice reminds her of Septa Yanniness, the genial religious woman who had been tasked with taking her under her wing when she was a novice at court, reminding her to be respectful in the eyes of the gods, even if they weren’t one’s own gods – a lesson that had stuck.

“Lyanna.”

The informality of his address is startling – she had asked him time and time again to call her by her given name, but he had always insisted on _Your Grace_ , as if to spite her – but for once she cannot find any trace of malice in his steely eyes and his aloof demeanour. Stannis Baratheon’s gaze is empty, his jaw is taught, his posture rigid, nevertheless he seems beside himself.

Lyanna’s mouth snaps shut, she suddenly feels as insecure about protocol as a blushing debutante might be. She is the Queen, he is the King’s brother, he never cared much for the King and she’s planning to destroy his legacy … oh, the irony! She lays her chin upon her folded hands, staring ahead, and waits.

“You made him very happy,” Stannis finally says, after a time that could as well have been a whole winter had passed, “I’m sure he’s made generous provisions for you.”

A chanting acolyte passes, waving a bowl of incense around, and Lyanna is glad that she can mask her cough of incredulity and indignation in a whiff of sharp smoke.


End file.
